


Endgame

by NineMagicks, Sourcherrymagiks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Board Games, Chess, Explicit Sexual Content, Jenga, M/M, Monopoly (Board Game), Mutual Masturbation, Operation (game), Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Remix, Sexy confusion, Smut, Snakes and ladders, Watford eighth year divergence, board game crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22601737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks
Summary: This is an explicit work of fiction. All of the characters involved are over 18.He blinks at me. I see the beleaguered hamster limping around its wheel, just behind his bulging eyes. “A-are you suggesting...do you...are you going to take my bishop?”“I’m suggesting,”—I make a show of pushing my hair back, enjoying the bob of his Adam’s apple as his eyes track my every move—”that since you seem so intrigued, Snow, I can charitably offer you a lesson in the basics. Rules, permissible moves, beginner’s tactics...that sort of thing.”He groans. Merlin, how does he exist, wallowing in such a perennial snit?“You’ve never offered to teach me anything before. Why now? Why this?”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 39
Kudos: 255





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisRix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/gifts).
  * Inspired by [5 Times They Half-Arsed It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124745) by [KrisRix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix). 



> (This was a collaboration between Ninemagicks and Sourcherrymagiks. Featuring dialogue and description from the original fic, with a twist...)
> 
> This is what happens when you have a very odd dream and then convince your friend to help you write it. 
> 
> You end up with a lot of smutty game puns. Enjoy.
> 
> Very sorry Kris, you did nothing to deserve this 💕

**BAZ**

I settle back in my pillows with a pleasured sigh as I assess the scene in front of me. I never let myself get too carried away in moments like this, but ours is the only room on this floor of the tower, so I permit myself a little freedom.

I typically wait until Snow is sleeping, but even after spelling the bathroom soundproof, I feel too on-edge to play properly. (It’s a boon and a bane, really. I rather like knowing he’s just on the other side of the door. Despite needing to be sneaky about it.) But Snow isn’t here—he left nearly an hour ago on a stupid mission with the Mage. I can be as open as I like (within reason), and I can take as long as I desire. No need to keep it simple and stick to a time-limit. No need to hide. I have all afternoon.

I took my time setting up and preparing. Now, I get to indulge.

I close my eyes and make the first move slowly, _so_ slowly. The bed creaks beneath me. It’s been months since I’ve had enough free time for this. I shouldn’t, but I let myself imagine that it’s Snow who’s playing with me—that I’m overwhelmed by him, that he’s marvelling at my skill. I bet Snow is shameless. I bet he has no control over the sounds that come out of him. I bet he’s awkward and garrulous and fucking _wild_ once you get him going. Graceless and feral.

There’s more creaking. My imaginary Snow feels so real, I swear to Merlin, I can _smell_ him. Cinnamon, bacon—something I’d gladly eat. Then there’s another sound, but my brain is muddled and it takes me far too long to place it. _The doorknob._ My eyes fly open. I look in horror at the bedroom door—the door with a comically perfect view of my illicit goings-on—and watch helplessly as the knob finishes turning and clicks open.

There’s no time to reach for my wand. There’s no time to do anything at all. I freeze, echoed in the way Simon Snow freezes as the door swings open and he catches sight of me. 

The silence is agony.

I’m pretty sure neither of us is breathing, and I think my heart is pounding harder than it ever has. (It sounds like Snow’s is growing rather frantic, too.) I’m not sure what I expected him to do if he ever caught me like this. I’ve fantasised about it several times—endless variations of him freaking out, then punching me or joining me. (Or both—the two are far from mutually exclusive.) I did not, however, expect him to stand there in the doorway, hand wrapped around the knob, mouth flapping uselessly as he stares, wide-eyed, at the set-up in front of him.

“Snow. In or out,” I snarl darkly. “Pick one.”

Snow stumbles forward as if summoned, and the door slams shut behind him. The sound of it and my subsequent incredulous eyebrow lift make his eyes widen further. “Oh. I—wait—um—” His eyes dart around but keep returning to me. To my bed, specifically. “That’s not—” 

I swallow against a surge of panic. The reality of Simon Snow standing before me in this predicament is setting in. It’s unfathomably shameful, yet I can’t bring myself to move.

Worse, I find myself all the more thrilled.

“Going to pull up a chair?” I snap.

That breaks Snow from his stupor. He scrambles to his desk, sure to keep his back to me. “Jesus Christ, Baz!” he sputters. “What are you _doing_?” 

“You got a perfectly good eyeful, didn’t you?” 

“Y—fuck—lock the fucking door!” Snow’s in a standard-issue fit, tugging at his hair aggressively.

“I usually do,” I retort. I see his spine straighten—let him think of that how he’d like. “You shouldn’t have been back so soon.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, my bad, sorry about that!” Snow barks. 

I sigh. Well. I can’t actually stay like this, and he’s clearly not about to leave. As tempting as it is to finish the game, I would immolate from embarrassment—I can already feel heat spooling inside me, scalding me with equal parts pleasure and shame. I wouldn’t survive it. 

Still, I have to wrangle this mess back under my control. And what better way to assert my dominance than by making him even more uncomfortable? It’s not like it escaped my notice, how his eyes kept snapping back to me. Even if only from morbid curiosity, there’s still something in him that’s burning to know.

“Would you like to play with me, Snow?” I drawl.

“Why—why the hell would I—fucking _shit_ , Baz—it’s banned—you can’t be serious!”

I laugh, cruel and a little breathless. “Yeats and Keats, Snow, who knew you were such a prude.” 

I drink in the sight of his bluster and pointedly move my pawn into the Sicilian defence.

Snow shudders. “I’m not—” He tosses his head from side to side dramatically. “There’s a difference!”

“Between what and what?” I press, enunciating sharply. Snow’s expression always pinches up when I do that.

“B-between prudishness and—and this!” he squawks, flapping a hand in my direction. “You could be expelled, we both could!”

“Crowley, it’s just a game.”

“H-hardly!”

“I pity Wellbelove, if your idea of fun is so vanilla.” Not that he’s even with her any longer. (And yes, I do get a sadistic pleasure from reminding him of that fact.)

“Don’t talk about girls,” Snow groans, “while you’re _doing that_!” 

That fucking pisses me off.

“You really are clueless,” I sneer, not having to force the derision in my voice. “Everyone can experience pleasure from a stimulating game, Snow. Even those amongst us who are pathologically uptight.” 

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“It means,” I growl, “that despite all your uptight, uneducated, pathetic overcompensating, even _you_ could find pleasure in a little game play.”

I shouldn’t be pushing this. There’s no need for me to be so defensive. I should be unabashed and flaunting it in his face— _Yes, Snow, you’re right. I’m a grand master and you’ve found me pounding through opening variations, thinking of my forebears. And just what do you intend to do about it?_ Instead I’m skirting the issue like a fucking backgammon amateur, shielding my back rank from his discriminating gaze with a shaking hand.

(It’s not that I think Snow is scared of defeat.) (There have been enough things here and there to make me assume he’s at least not completely _against_ a good game or two...still, being fine with board games in general is one thing—being fine with your roommate’s deluxe chess set is another thing entirely.)

The prospect is tempting. That I might somehow plant a seed of doubt and curiosity in his mind—perhaps even enough to force him into running his hands over my rook, during his next less-than-subtle rummage through my belongings.

“H-how does—?” Snow’s tormented mind is capable of producing only strangled sounds, it seems. I lift my eyebrow and wait for the impending avalanche of stupidity. “I’m not touching your pawn!” he finally blurts. I roll my eyes and let him stew in his own embarrassment.

“And you needn’t, Snow. Sliding the bishop along a few spaces can be satisfying enough.” He gapes at me. “Do you require a rule sheet?”

“What? No. Fuck your bishop, Baz.” He gathers himself for one more magnificent bluster. “I mean—No! _Argh_.”

I smirk. Inside I’m nervous, paper too close to the flame. It’s foolish of me to push him, but this has ever been the inevitability about Snow and I. The smoke, the heat, the burning.

And after, ashes.

“Would you prefer a more kinaesthetic approach?”

He blinks at me. I see the beleaguered hamster limping around its wheel, just behind his bulging eyes. “A-are you suggesting...do you...are you going to take _my_ bishop?”

“I’m suggesting,”—I make a show of pushing my hair back, enjoying the bob of his Adam’s apple as his eyes track my every move—”that since you seem so intrigued, Snow, I can charitably offer you a lesson in the basics. Rules, permissible moves, beginner’s tactics...that sort of thing.”

He groans. Merlin, how does he exist, wallowing in such a perennial snit?

“You’ve never offered to teach me anything before. Why now? Why _this_?”

My lip curls. “Don’t expect such flagrant generosity from me ever again, Snow. Gift horses, mouths—you’re familiar with the saying, I presume?”

Another long pause unfurls as he attempts to feebly grasp a metaphor. I’ve always revelled in making him wilt beneath my superior intellect, though to his credit, he’s never been one to back down from the challenge. I feel mildly guilty at having plagued his mind with such a cruel twist of linguistics.

I could sneer and say I’ve been messing with him, that his bewildered naivety has grown stale and I’m done with the ruse. I could leave him confused and extricate myself from the situation with the few remaining shreds of my dignity intact. Instead, I poke the bear. “What are you so afraid of?”

Of course that provokes him. ( _So_ predictable.) “I’m _not_ afraid.”

“The sheer amount of sweat you’re currently producing suggests otherwise. We could plug you into the Rutland reservoir and sell the proceeds off to Severn Trent for a profit. It’s obscene, how disgusting you are.”

“ _Shut. Up._ ” Snow’s eyes flick down to the board propped between my legs. “I’m just... _confused_.”

Oh.

My interest had been flagging, but Snow’s confession has my full attention. _I’m_ sweating now, along the back of my neck and down my spine. I’m choking on the heady stench of his magic, and my unbending want to emotionally ravage him until he’s forgotten what confusion _means_.

“Your reluctance is born of ignorance,” I say. I’m desperate. I know he can hear it in my voice; it’s an almost tangible thing, thick and heavy under my tongue.

“You sound like Penny.” His voice is tight, like when I’m verbally pummeling him into defeat during one of our endless arguments.

I wet my lips. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about girls whilst I’ve got four knights perched between my thighs, Snow.”

He gulps showily. “Baz! That’s—that’s not…” His eyes cease their roaming, falling on something and staying locked there. I have to squeeze down on a pillow to save myself from swooning. _He’s staring at the king._ “I don’t want you knocking my pieces over.”

“Duly noted.” _How_ am I still functional? “There are many enjoyable facets to the game, other than sheer, soul-crushing domination. I’ll go easy on you. I’ll be patient. _Gentle_.”

Snow nods. “Right,” he breathes.

_“Right?”_

He finally looks away from the board, and as our eyes meet I realise he hasn’t looked at me properly the entire time he’s been in the room. His eyes narrow. I quiver in anticipation.

“Right,” he echoes, more confidently this time. His jaw tightens and I dig my fingers into the mattress. “What do...what do I do first?”

Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah. Is he actually _agreeing_ to this?

It’s mad. Ludicrous. Unimaginable. _Real_.

“Well, then. Let’s see.” I let my gaze do as Snow’s has done several times: I assess the board. I then give Snow a disapproving once-over. “You’ll have to take your shoes off before you get on my bed.”

He has the decency to look admonished. “That’s, um...that’s a bit familiar, innit?”

I am going to fucking destroy him.

“Snow, you wretch—you’ve agreed to having me dismantle your mental defences, piece by piece by piece, but the idea of taking your shoes off is too _familiar_?”

“I thought I could just, I don’t know...sit on the floor or something? Being on your bed is different.”

I huff. “Shoes off, and that’s the end of it. There are only so many of your mind-bending peculiarities I’m prepared to be burdened with in one day.” I wave in the direction of the bathroom. “Wash your hands. This set’s made of marble. And use _soap_ , you animal.” I hesitate. “And then...then come out in your socks, Snow.”

He turns to obey, disappearing into the bathroom without another word of protest.

For the love of Merlin, what the fuck am I doing?

He’s faster than I expected. I barely have time to reset the board before he’s opening the bathroom door.

Oh.

Merciful fuck, Snow is a vision.

He’s standing awkwardly in the bathroom doorway, wearing only his uniform and socks. He’s shoved his sleeves up, and his forearms are the single most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.

“N-now what?” Snow asks, snapping me out of my reverie. I clear my throat.

“On the bed.”

Snow does so obediently—and, fuck, if that isn’t a thrill. It strikes a match in me, reigniting the torturous flames of my desire. 

Snow yelps when I suddenly grab him by the hand, before I have a chance to second-guess things further. I yank him closer to the board and wrap his hand around a pawn.

“Baz—!”

I don’t know if it’s a sound of surprise, grievance or thrill, and I don’t care. Snow is so close and doing something scandalous; I can focus on nothing else. He smells freshly of school-issued soap, but it can’t mask his usual scent, so warm and brown and delicious.

I want to eat him.

“Snow,” I warn, “I’m going to move you now.”

“O-okay, just—oh....”

Snow tenses as I lightly, _so lightly_ , slide the pawn forward into the Queen’s pawn opening. I lick my lips.

“B-Baz—”

Somehow, I drag my gaze away from the board, and I must look a fright because Snow shudders visibly when we make eye contact. I’m so hungry for him, I’m worried I’ll thrall him—perhaps that’s what has him tensing, too. Though he doesn’t seem to be cowering at all...Snow’s gaze is wide and enduring.

“Are you, um...are you, have you done this with anyone else?”

Without breaking my eyes away from his, I counter his opening with d5. My body aches for the Nf6 but I need to get everything I can from him. I need to savour this.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes? Maybe? I don’t know.” 

“If I say no, will you stop me?” I knead my thumb pad along Snow’s wrist as I drag his next move out slowly. ( _So_ slowly.) Snow gulps. “I...n...n-no.”

“And,” I continue, keeping my eyes on his and not quite letting go of the pawn, “if I say yes, will you stop me?”

“No,” Snow exhales, far more resolutely.

“So...it doesn’t matter.”

He nods. And then...he relaxes in my hold. He lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment. 

I’ve won.

Now, to claim my prize.

“Snow, I’m going to need you to concentrate. You know the very basics, but I want more from you than that. I want a match.”

There’s an agonizing pause wherein I wait for his response, breath held. I am utterly certain he withholds his consent far longer than necessary, merely to spite me. I love him for it all the more.

“Yeah,” he finally emits. I’m on him in a flash.

I swipe a firm move to take the centre of the board. Snow unleashes a wild groan. I don’t bother hiding my hunger—he’s already seen it, plain and apparent, written all over my face. I take his hand again and openly move him.

I’ve no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never even played anyone but myself, and yet here I am. It’s preposterous and obscene, and I’m hopelessly intoxicated by it all. He’s thinking now, trying to plan a move.

It’s all just...just _so much_.

“Fuck,” Snow whines. Then, again, “Fuck!” he growls. This time he moves without my help. Then when he’s lost he looks back to me, desperation in his eyes. I wouldn’t be able to pick which I liked best if my life depended on it.

I take my time over my next move, whispering basic rules to him as I stroke the pieces. I move and limit his options considerably. 

Snow doesn’t miss a beat. He’s fucking brilliant in a fight, and he approaches this just the same—not giving an inch, taking whatever he can get. The second I stop advancing, he’s coming straight for me and that’s when I realize what a fantastic way to go this would be, smothered by Simon Snow’s strategy.

I’ve precisely enough mind left to recall that he specified he didn’t want me to knock over his pieces, so I remain just this side of cautious, only prodding and teasing, never breaching.

“Oh, Crowley. Oh fuck, Baz.”

Snow sounds absolutely wrecked. It’s better than I imagined. He tugs at his beautiful, wanton curls, glancing to me for guidance. He lets me touch him whenever I need to. My inexperience as a teacher doesn’t appear to be of any detriment to Snow’s pleasure.

Ah. And there’s something else I’d like to try.

I slide his hand into place and let him take my rook.

“Baz—!” he wails. Fuck, I’m never going to hear my name the same way from him again.

I thought Snow was an extraordinary opponent before, but this is a whole new level. He’s so uninhibited in his responsiveness. I try to hold onto every detail of it—his explosions of confidence that dissolve into uncertainty, his desperate longing for approval. All of it, all of _him_ —he’s so much. I suppose that’s to be expected, though. Simon Snow is always too much, in all the best ways.

I give him too much right back, unrelenting now in my assault. The taken pieces mount up and we are down to our final moves. 

I hardly have chance to catch my breath before we are down to a Queen and Pawn ending, and I’ve got him now, I’m sure. I luxuriate in it, feeling a surge of ecstasy.

Snow’s moan snakes through me as he moves into his final position.

_Checkmate._

Well. 

Fuck.

I stare at him in a daze. Having him relax back, flushed with success, is somehow more jarring then his relentless forward assault. The reality of what we’ve done begins to settle in.

Snow stares back at me with a hooded, faraway gaze. His mouth is hanging open, chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. I’m too aroused and, frankly, shocked to do much more than ogle him.

He blinks a few times as his brain seems to come back online. Snow’s gaze drops from my own, looking between his legs—between my legs—at the almost empty board. He gulps with the full effect of that fucking showy neck of his.

I watch Snow watch me. He starts working his jaw in an attempt to say something. There’s a heart-stopping moment where I think he’s going to offer assistance—

“Um—” His voice is hoarse. It’s painfully sexy, especially knowing that I caused it. “W-well! That was, uh,”—Snow stumbles towards his side of the room—“right educational.”

I stupidly rub my hand through my wet hair. Crowley—we really just— _I_ really just—

Next thing I know, Snow’s snatching up his trainers, mumbling a string of words that I can’t quite catch (typical), and darting out of our room.

The slam of the door helps bring me to my senses _. Simon Snow just beat me at Chess._ I unleash a long, disgruntled groan into the empty room.

And I have another frenzied, confusing, unfulfilling match against myself.

What the fuck have I done?


	2. Second Time

**SIMON**

What the fuck just happened?

I don’t have a bloody clue, mate. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. I know _what_ happened. I just can’t get my head around _why_. It seems pretty fucking top-shelf stupid to let your vampire arch-enemy anywhere near you with his knight primed on h3.

Oh, Merlin.

I hide in the men’s loos in Mummers House. I’m a mess, leaning back against the cubicle wall, trying to catch my breath.

I can’t get the thought of Baz out of my head—his hand around mine, guiding me.

He’s a vampire. There’s no doubt in my mind. I’ve never caught him draining someone, but if I had to imagine it, his face...he would look like how he did tonight. Dangerous. Desperate. Sexy. _Starving_. If he’d curled his lip and flashed me his fangs, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

I shudder against the wall, running my hands over my face, trying to force some sense back into myself. Pushing away thoughts of Baz’s fangs only makes room for other intrusive thoughts, though.

Like what I walked in on. How he was sprawled on the bed, board between his legs, rolling the king piece between his fingers. How when he saw me he moved his hands to cover most of it, but I could still see the squares...black and white, edged in gold.

Like the sight of his hand around my wrist, pinching me, moving me around the board. How close he was to me. How badly he seemed to want something...and how close I was to _offering_ it.

Like what he’s doing now, alone in our room…

Fuck.

I’m not a game enthusiast. I’d know if I was. Maybe I’m just confused from all the tension. (Is this just a really mad adrenaline rush?) (That sounds about right.)

Baz said people like me can enjoy games, too. My brain just needs time to adjust. It was...a lot of information. It’s to be expected, that I’m a bit muddled. Like when I try too hard in class and end up understanding less and less, as time goes on. That’s all this is.

The look on his face when I beat him…

I don’t know if it’ll ever completely leave my mind.

The only reason I want more from Baz is because I’m curious, yeah? He’s the one who put all these chess strategies in my head. It’s only fair that he’s on the receiving end of it, too. The fact that he’s pretty fit is a bonus—makes it easier to stomach. Anyone would want to climb into bed with Baz and play chess with him, he’s just _that_ good looking.

And really, why _shouldn’t_ I take what I can from Baz? He’s always making my life difficult. If he actually wants to help me with something, should I poke the horse’s mouth with my gift? (Or whatever that fucking metaphor is.)

Right. Yeah. That’s how I should be looking at this.

I feel better already.

  
  


* * *

I stay in the loo until I’ve calmed down. By the time I get back to our room, Baz is gone. The chess set has vanished, too. I’m glad he’s not here—I’m not ready to talk about what happened yet. I don’t even know if I could look at him.

We do need to talk about it, though. Sooner rather than later.

Baz obviously doesn’t feel the same. I hardly see him over the next week, and every time I enter our room when he’s there, he leaves. He slinks in late from the Catacombs and sleeps in every morning, not moving until I go downstairs for breakfast.

I can’t really blame him for feeling embarrassed. What we did was...weird. And intense.

It was his idea, though. He needs to own up to that at some point. It’s not like I _asked_ him to part his pawns so I could checkmate his king.

I might ask him to do it again, though.

That’s not exactly my top priority. Yeah, alright, so the chess stuff was really good. I mean, _really fucking good._ Add it to the list of things Baz is good at— _unfairly skilled in the art of ramming my nemesis’s frontline until he wants to cry from the agony._

What I really want is to understand _why_ he was playing with himself. Why’s he into board games in the first place? How did he get so good at chess? What _else_ does he play with, when I’m out of the room?

I’m not brave enough to ask him. I’m going to have to plan—no, I’m going to have to _plot_.

The perfect opportunity finally arrives on the following Thursday.

Baz isn’t in the dining hall at teatime, so I leave. (That’s how much I want to do this. I am willing to miss out on quality scone time for this.) It’s disappointing to walk in on an empty room, but Baz arrives a few minutes later, looking cool and relaxed and so fucking _snide_.

He sneers. He knows what time it is. (Scone time.) Me being up here probably doesn’t compute in his evil robot vampire brain, or something.

“Oh! No! But wait. I am just leaving.” I jump up from my desk and try to act natural.

Baz shoots me a look that says he couldn’t care less whether I stay or dive out of the bedroom window. “Did I ask?” It’s the only thing I’ve heard from him in days, so as far as I’m concerned, this counts as progress.

“I just, well—you can have the room!” I grab my bag and shove random things inside: textbooks, notebooks, clean pants. “I’m going on a mission with the Mage. Won’t be back any time soon. Maybe not ‘til tomorrow.”

Baz doesn’t reply, but he does sit down at his desk. I can feel his eyes boring into my back as I continue shovelling crap into my bulging bag.

“So. Uh. The room? All yours. All for you. Yourself.” I heave the bag up onto my shoulder and flash him a grin. “It’ll be nice to have some alone time, right?”

He hums, and it’s clear that’s all I’m getting from him.

“Well, then. Enjoy your...your _alone time._ ” It’s all I can do not to wink and click my fingers at him. I shuffle into my trainers and race for the door.

  
  


* * *

  
  


I tear through the Wavering Wood, shaky with nerves, trying not to think about Baz rubbing his thumb along my bishop. How he’d looked, making a move on my queen...I whack things with my sword, kick things, get scratched to shit by branches. Anything, everything I can do to distract myself. To forget.

An hour later, I climb the tower to our room, creeping up the final few steps leading to the door. I take a deep breath, my hand sweaty and slippery on the knob...then I twist.

Baz is lounging on his bed again, back against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles. He’s reading a book—our magic words textbook—glancing up long enough to raise an eyebrow, then returning to his page.

I’m standing in the doorway, hand worrying the doorknob, staring at him.

“Back so soon?”

He’s such a fucking bastard.

I clear my throat, closing the door behind me. “Y-yeah, um...he cancelled. Mage. Mage cancelled. _The_ Mage. You know.”

“Pity.”

“Aren’t you, um...a bit...y’know. Disappointed?”

Baz looks me up and down in the way he does when he wants me to feel an inch tall. “No. You certainly are, though.” He smirks. “Did you really think your little plan would work?”

I slump into my chair and tip out the contents of my bag. (Why did I take so much _shit?_ ) “What plan?”

Baz closes his book and holds it in his lap, fingers drumming against the cover. “You thought the second you left me alone, I’d start pummeling myself at chess?”

He says it so casually. I practically choke.

“Do _you_ start frantically setting up the Scheveningen Formation, as soon as I leave the room? Oh, Snow...and here I was, convinced you were a prude.”

“The shaven _what_ ? No!” My face is red. For fuck’s sake. “I, I wasn’t trying to catch you d-doing _anything_ , you twat! I just...I…”

Baz slides the book off his lap and unfolds his legs. All I can think about is the chess board and how it had looked, balanced on the sheet between his knees. I swallow and rest my head on the desk so I don’t have to look at him. So I can regain some composure.

If I look at him now, I know he’ll look just as he did the other day, when he was cornering one of my rooks.

Predatory. Cruel. _Hungry_.

“What did you think I’d be doing, Snow?” he asks, still horrifically casual. “What did you want to see?”

“I…” I pull at my hair, still not looking at him. “I wanted to—to see you...play.”

His eyebrow does that fucking thing again. “And why would you want to see that?”

“I, uh...I’m curious, alright? About chess. About how, um...how it works. How _you_ work. And...what else. What else you play. Other games.”

“It takes time,” he purrs. “It takes patience. You can’t just go shoving your pieces where you please and call it a strategy,” Baz explains. “You were fortunate to catch me off-guard the other day, Snow. There’s no way you could have beaten me otherwise. And as for other games...well, there are rules to be read, and a good deal of setting up to be done.”

_“Setting up?”_

“Oh yes,” Baz whispers. “So, though it pains me to say, I won’t be able to tutor you in the fine art of _setting up_ today.”

I’m blushing hard now. How can he _do_ this? Talk about board games like they’re not…like they’re not fucking _banned_ on school grounds! He grins at me and he knows, he bloody well _knows_ how disappointed I am.

“And that is because,” he continues, as leisurely as he likes, “I have already taken the liberty of setting up my next game. I did it whilst you were off gallivanting in the Woods, fulfilling your daily Chosen One quota.”

“You _what_?”

Baz puts his book away and sits on the end of the bed, hands steepled in front of his face. “It’s all set up and ready to go, Snow. Right now, as we both sit here in this room, there is a game, ready and _aching_ to be played with, just out of your reach.”

I can only manage to sputter at him. All actual words I once knew are useless now. “But how— _where?_ ” I inexplicably take the time to glance down at Baz’s crotch, which would be an insane place to store a pair of dice and a set of playing pieces. (And yet, that’s where my mind goes.)

“There’s a box.” His voice is molten, teasing. (But still gentle, like he was with the chess set.) “For my game collection. Under my bed.”

I swallow. His eyes are glued to my throat.

“So you, you...you got it ready when I left?”

I think _he’s_ blushing now. (It’s hot.)

“I did,” he says, tipping his head back to challenge me. “You were endearingly desperate, and I admit I was...curious as to the limits of your prowess, after our sparring match the other day.”

I’m burning up, and his eyes are all over me. I almost topple out of the chair in my embarrassment. “Can I...can I see?”

His eyes flash. He draws a deep, shuddering breath before answering. “Alright. I’ll get it out.”

My shoulders drop in relief. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands, then drops to a crouch so he can ferret out something from the space beneath. Whatever’s down there wasn’t pushed under very far—he lifts out a rectangle of blue plastic and a bag of red and yellow coins, dumping them on the bed.

It’s not what I expected. “Where’s the chess set?” I ask despairingly.

Baz is normally the very definition of _I don’t give a fuck what you think_. Right now, though, I can see a slight tremor in his hands as he sorts the coins (Discs? Circles? The fuck is this?) into two separate piles. He sits on one side of the blue rectangle, crossing his knees, and pats the bed.

I’m almost light-headed as all of the blood in my body makes a beeline for my pants. Is this what he’s plotting? Condition me with board games and sly compliments, so when he pats his bed I automatically start thinking with my cock? Is that his plan to incapacitate me so he can win this time? He must be _really_ pissed off that I beat him at chess.

Merlin. I hope I don’t have a _thing_ for board games now. That would be really fucking weird.

“Are you going to sit down?” Baz asks, eyebrow still in the position. “Or do you plan on taking a picture? It would certainly last longer.”

“What _is_ this?” I snarl as I sit across from him. I’ve kicked off my shoes without thinking, so I reckon I _am_ already a bit conditioned. The colourful counters go sliding around the duvet, ruining Baz’s hard work. “I thought we were going to play chess again.”

“This, Snow, is Connect Four. It is exceedingly simple to follow, even for someone like you with your gerbil brain.” We make eye contact and I can _feel_ it, how badly he wants me dead. “Indulge me...just what are you hoping to get from all this _exploration?_ Your curiosity is _most_ unexpected.”

“Uh, well, um...” I squirm, gripping a pillow. “I just don’t get it. How it could, you know, um...feel good?”

“And so,” Baz says, pulling out a small pad and pencil, “you want a demonstration.”

I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. 

“Yeah. Yes."

Baz studies me for a moment. He looks...apprehensive. We both have every reason to be I guess. This is a pretty fucked up thing for enemies to be bonding over. (Bonding can’t possibly be the right word.) This is serious shit. The Mage would fucking murder me if he found out I was engaging in game play with the heir to the House of Pitch.

“All right, Snow,” he agrees after a long beat. “I’ll show you.” My heart’s sputtering wildly.

“What, um....” I wet my lips, watching Baz’s index finger reach down to touch the blue rectangle. He circles his finger at the spot where the counters enter the rack-thingy. 

“What do you want in return?”

“What do you mean?” Baz is probably making a face at me, but I can’t look at him. I’m sweating enough as it is.

This is mad, isn’t it? I’m staring at Baz’s fingers, deliberately watching him touch and tease the counter in his hands. This has to be mad.

This has to be a trap.

“You’ve got to be plotting something,” I say, and I actually manage to sound firm about it. “Making me indebted to you, or tricking me somehow. Something.”

“I can’t do one nice thing for you without it being part of a plot?”

I shake my head. “Doubt it. You’re not that decent.” I finally flick my eyes up to find him sneering back at me. He’s so insufferable—I want to wipe that shitty look off his face. I want to see him crumble. I want to see him desperate.

“If you’re so suspicious of my motivations,” he says, “then perhaps I should stop.”

“No,” I insist. Baz lifts an eyebrow at my tone of voice. “You said you’d show me. Do it.”

Baz’s nostrils flare. I know that look. I’ve seen it many times before, when he’s about to clobber me, or trying out some new way to be an absolute tosser. But he’s in no position to attack right now. I beat him last time. I can beat him again.

A thrill runs through me at the thought.

“Fine.” He's still a bit snarky but I reckon I’ve got him now.

“The rules are simple, but the strategy is anything but.” He fucking winks at me, then takes my hand and runs it over a line on the rack. My cock twitches, empathetic to the sweep of Baz’s touch along the toy. I set my jaw and look away—it’s too much, and I want to stay in control. The only person I want falling apart right now is him.

“How do you win?” I ask, examining the empty rack. 

“You simply line up four of your colour—vertically, horizontally or diagonally—and stop me from forming a line of my own.” 

“What? A-are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.” Baz slides our joined hands in patterns of four. Horizontal, vertical, diagonal.

“And I’ll let you in on a little secret, Snow.” Baz keeps tugging my hand. It’s fucking distracting. 

“Sometimes,” he breathes, “I play this in the room. While you’re here.” 

I’m dizzy. I can’t fucking fathom what I’m seeing, and the things he’s saying don’t make any sense. “I’ll sit right there at my desk, and you’ll have no idea it’s right in front of me.”

He flips the pad open and I see page upon page of strategy—completed grids, notes. I groan as loud as he does.

“Fuck....”

I’m not even sure which one of us says it.

Baz collects himself enough to divide up the coloured checkers. (Thingies? Whatchmacallits?) It’s nowhere near as difficult looking as chess but I’m still wary. Baz looks so ready, though. He makes everything look so fucking good...

I still suspect he can read my mind because next thing I know, he’s teasing me. “How’s the view?” Baz sounds breathless but still annoyingly composed. I can’t wait to take him apart.

“You’re lying, right?” I ask. “You don’t _really_ do that in the room.”

“I do.” He plucks up a counter.

“No way. How could I not notice that?” I persist.

“Because you’re an excessively oblivious dimwit, Snow.”

“And you’re a fucking prick.”

Baz grins. He languidly drags his tongue across his lips and swirls the tip of his first counter along the rim—I don’t know where I’d rather look. All of this is so much, so overwhelming. 

I’m getting progressively more uncomfortable as he stalls, dragging out his first move until it’s agony. It sure would be something, forcing Baz Pitch to his limits and watching him lose, _surrendering_. (To me.) That would shut him up for a while.

“I’ll notice next time,” I growl.

“Oh....” Baz’s lashes flutter. I’m not sure if it’s because of my threat or the fact that he’s starting to push the disc at the entrance. “And then what?” he pants.

I swallow and readjust the tilt of my hips, pressing my crotch into the pillow, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. “If I catch you,” I warn, “then you’ll have to show me again.”

Baz looks me dead in the eye and lets it go. The rattle of the counter ripples straight through me. 

“Challenge accepted, Snow. Your turn.”

I bite my lip and try not to get overly excited about Baz’s wavering voice. Really though, I’m desperate for it. It’s an effort not to charge straight in and play without thinking. If I win again I could make him ask for a rematch. Or maybe beg. Jesus Christ, I’d pay to hear Baz beg for me.

Baz taps his fingers on his knee and ponders his next move. I’ve blocked a horizontal to the left. The visual of Baz strategising, of having to strategise, is hypnotising. Each of his turns is like a spell. I’m completely enthralled.

Oh.

Maybe I _am_. Enthralled. Maybe he’s done something to me? That would explain why all I can think about is playing his wanker vampire games over and over and over.

No...that’s not right. I don’t really think I’m thralled. I think...I think I just really like seeing my enemy undone.

There’s a part of me that feels awful about these thoughts, but that part’s having a lot of trouble getting through the haze of how into this I am. 

Maybe I shouldn’t be humanising my enemy. Especially because he’s a vampire. Except...like this, he’s not any of those things. He’s not a dark creature or a villain or the posh dickhead with perfect marks.

He’s just a boy. A boy who wants me to join him, to play with him.

“Ah...fuck,” Baz whines. It’s a foreign sound, coming from him. I get goosebumps all over.

Baz realises a moment too late that I’ve fucking got him. There’s no way out now. 

I drag my gaze up to Baz’s face—I literally growl when I see his expression. He’s flushed and his mouth is hanging open, his brow drawn up. His eyes are hooded, darkened by his wide pupils. He’s a wreck. And he’s staring right at me.

He doesn’t need to thrall me to draw me in, does he? He just has to keep giving me that pleading, ravaged look, and all I can do is want to make him push his boundaries more and more.

I want to know just how skilled Basilton Grimm-Pitch can be.

Before I know it, I’m reaching forward to release the bottom of the rack. Counters spill wildly all over the duvet. He flinches.

“I...I’m not going to hurt you,” I assure. I feel sick with the thought. Baz has never flinched away from me before.

Baz just breathes heavily and bites his lip. He runs his gaze all over me, stalling on my crotch. I’m pathetically hard. It would be embarrassing if I didn’t feel like getting hard was pretty inevitable. Who _wouldn’t_ get turned on by this?

“Alright...” Baz relents. He gives a nod and divides the counters up again. 

“Best of three.”

He slowly starts moving his counters. I settle back into the game. 

I go back to watching his every move, trying to spot the best ways to block him, the most frustrating ways to vie for space. He responds so quickly. It’s fucking glorious.

But I want more.

Baz shivers when I pick up my next counter. His eyes are hazy and wild as he tracks my every movement. I flip along the top of the rack and he leans forward until I can feel his breath ghosting over my hands—so _eager_. I let go, and I think that I have him completely now.

“Oh...oh, fuck... "

This must be it. But a deviant smile spreads over his face. I know I’ve lost. (It never felt so good.) Baz is squirming a little so I think he must really like it, too. We are a _mess._ It’s filthy.

He reaches to unhook the bottom of the rack but I grab his hand. Just like he’s done to mine time and time again through these confusing little—what?—play times?

“Let me,” I rasp, “let me do that for you.”

“Fuck. Snow, _yes_.” Baz lets me guide his hand along the base. I’m stalling because I flippin’ love the feel of his hand, alright? 

“Snow,” Baz growls, and my insides turn to mush. (Possibly I’m just hungry.) Merlin, I wouldn’t mind him calling me Snow if it always sounded like _that_.

I take a deep breath and touch my fingers to the toy. It’s warm (I guess we _are_ sweating up a storm in here), which is strangely sexy. I slide my fingers down the length of the rectangle. And then up. And I do it again, and again, making sure he gets it, _all_ of it.

“Snow,” he says again. Baz is shaking with restraint as he watches me work.

“You’re so impatient.” I wrap my thumb and forefinger around the hook. “So fucking needy.”

“Enough—” he gasps. “I need to—”

“Need to what, Baz?” I stroke it again.

“Snow—!”

“You have to say it,” I grunt. “You’re not being a very good teacher. You have to tell me so I’ll understand.”

Baz snarls and gives me a petulant glare. He’s flushed and sweating and overwhelmed with competitive frustration. He’s beautiful.

“I need to play you,” he snaps. “I need to win.” I bite back a groan.

“Go ahead, then.”

He lets the counters (Pieces? Chips? Markers? Stones?) fall.

I don’t look away. I watch the entire time, every detail of Baz’s expert game. He’s destroying me. I feel pounded and raw. My brain is quaggy and I can’t respond quickly enough. Baz shoves it in hard one last time—his whole body seizes up with triumph.

I finally look away from the game, but only so I can see his expression instead. He looks like he’s in pain and so intensely blissed out at the same time. He’s fucking breathtaking.

“Fuck—” I rush to snap my gaze back down to the game before he slices me into chunks for the merwolves. (He _can’t_ catch me lusting after him.) I’m still panting and lost in those final fuzzy moments of game play, so even Baz’s winning rack (Board? Why is this game so fucking confusing?) seems appealing to me.

I realize Baz is watching me closely. 

He licks his lips.

Then he pushes himself off the bed.

“Satisfied?” Baz asks, still sounding so breathless. Just the way I wanted him.

“Y-yeah,” I say.

I think maybe that’s a lie.

Because in class the next morning, I watch as Baz takes his seat in front of me. I watch the way he flips open his notebook, and a shudder of pleasure shoots up my back. All I can think about is how last night he played me and played me until I couldn’t remember my own name.

And as I fight off an erection all through our first class of the day, I think maybe I’m never going to be satisfied ever again.


	3. Third Time

**BAZ**

I think I might never be satisfied ever again. This is torture.

We haven’t spoken about it. Obviously.

I don’t avoid the room any longer, though I do have to keep reigning myself in from deliberately being in the room when that cunning little brat is there.

It’s extremely moronic to expect something else to happen between us. Extremely dangerous, too. I don’t just think we would be expelled. I think it would be a wand snapping, tower imprisoning, disowned-from-the-magical-community type of offence. The Mage does _not_ have a sense of humour, and would not tolerate those who openly flout his game playing rules. (Fascist.)

However, I _am_ obliged to admit that I’m thrilled I made Snow so confused and aroused that he felt compelled to try to catch me in the act...but I’m not so misguided by love and lust to think he actually wants me. Not in the way I so yearn for.

This is a power play. I can see it in the jut of his chin and the glint in his eye. He loves seeing perfect, composed Basilton Pitch debauched, beaten, challenged—all just for him.

Thank magic he has no idea how desperately I want to submit to him. I might have agreed to anything when he came to join me on my bed. I’d let him win every game, if that’s what he wanted. I would have hand fed him crisps while he pummelled me. I’d do anything, just to have him truly desire me for that one moment.

I’ve been in over my head ever since I realized I’m in love with him—earlier, even. This is an all-new low, even for me.

It’s been nearly three weeks, and I haven’t been able to get those two encounters of ours out of my mind. I’ve never been so aggressively desirous for so long. Even my entire summer of solo board games, played to excess in order to fruitlessly rid myself of him, can’t compare to how I’ve yearned for his rivalry these past three weeks.

I wake every morning, achingly aware, my dreams of him licking hot flames through my veins. I lock myself in the shower, sit on the floor and frantically whip through game after game of solitaire on a tiny travel board, whimpering his name into the tiles.

My shame echoes easily in the acoustics of the bathroom—it would be so convenient to forget to soundproof the room and let myself cry out for him, let him hear me. He could come in and watch, force me to continue for his pleasure. Or he could shove me away and take over, easily grasping the rules and strategy like he does. He’s made for this. 

I never actually let myself forget to cast the spell. And I never let myself get too loud, either. Still, every morning, it’s another feverish game followed by a foreboding hunger and despair that only grow deeper.

I want him so badly, no matter the price.

Having one’s nemesis exposed and vulnerable at your feet would bring out the worst in any man. I’d worry he’d take it too far, but Simon Snow doesn’t seem to have a single bad bone in his body. Snow’s worst is providing me with more and more thrilling challenges, apparently.

Besides, there’s nothing Snow could do to me that would ever be as bad as the pain I cause myself.

Like right now, for instance. I’ve made the absolutely brainless decision to see if Snow would make good on his threat. Even though I know we need to keep pretending nothing ever happened, for both our sakes. Even though I know this can only end in flames.

But I’m so bored. And he’s the only thing that makes me feel entertained.

So, here I am at my desk in our room, with Snow sitting at his own...and I’ve got the notebook in front of me. 

It’s unfathomably foolish of me. Yes, I’ve played with him in the room before. It’s been my own private comfort—knowing that if I could never have him, at least I could engage in some forbidden gaming while breathing the same air as the Chosen One. 

But now Snow knows. I told him because I couldn’t resist seeing his reaction. (And oh, what a glorious reaction it was...)

He won’t be able to tell, unless he suddenly grows eyes in the back of his head. I’ve got the game propped up behind a ring binder and my notebook open to a blank page. He’ll never know I’m half-hard and squeezing onto the firmness of the pencil, gripped tightly in one hand.

I almost blacked out the last time I did this—gamed with him in the room. Snow was locked in mortal combat with an essay and had the sheer audacity to leave late for dinner. I had the notebook open, strategising for far longer than I’d expected, and when he finally left, I was a disaster—the pencil snapped between my fingers.

My satisfaction at beating myself afterwards was immense, heightened only by how long I’d ached for it. After that, I told myself I wouldn’t game around him again.

I am, as ever, a constant disappointment to myself.

I do my best to focus on the notes in front of me, when all I want to do is knock over the ring binder and play myself to completion. I’d never allow myself to be so brazen, no matter how tempted I am. But still…

Perhaps I _could_. The prospect of knocking out a fresh strategy and openly agreeing with myself, despite his close proximity, is almost too hot to pass up. I’m sure he’d be too weak to resist, allowing some delicious filth or other to tumble out of his mouth.

He could sputter. Or bluster. Or offer me his own pencil, which I’d take into my hand, despite how he’s mangled the end with his incessant chewing. He could loom over me at my desk, rubbing out my strategy and pounding his own into me, until I’m bleary-eyed and spent. He could be frenzied or grateful or cruel.

I’d take anything. I’d take whatever he would give me.

I’m far too chicken to find out what that might be. No, it’s best I keep this to myself. Later, if the opportunity arises, I can torture him with the knowledge of it—that he failed to notice me here, playing myself into a frenzy, cock embarrassingly hard under the desk.

It’s the victory. It’s the victory I crave. (That’s what I tell myself.)

This erection is merely a manifestation of my desire to soundly beat Snow to a strategic pulp.

“Baz?”

I startle, dropping my pencil and almost sending the ring binder flying.

“What?” I snap. I don’t take my eyes off my notebook.

He doesn’t answer. I wait, in case he needs extra time to find the words he needs. (That happens.) (It’s like trying to have a conversation with a fax machine from the 80s.) I begin tapping my pencil on the notebook, without even meaning to. The sound of Snow’s chair creaking makes me stop my ceaseless fidgeting—I toss the pencil over my shoulder, where it skids under the bed somewhere. Don’t need the damn thing anyway.

“Baz,” Snow says again.

I snarl at my now highly-suspicious ring binder. “ _What?”_

“You’re doing it, aren’t you? You’re _strategising._ ”

I could die of shame. Right here, right now. _Merlin, light me up._

“Why would you think that?” I manage to say. I keep my voice low. I daren’t let him see how embarrassed I am to be caught like this.

“Well…” Is he staring at me? How long has he been watching me fiddle with my pencil? “You’ve got your folder propped up all weird around your desk. And you’re sitting funny.” I hear the creak of his chair again as he leans over the back of it, trying to get a good look. “I’m wondering if...if you’ve got a game on your desk.”

If only I could actually carry through on all of those countless threats to murder him. Life would be much simpler. I inhale sharply and slam my notebook shut. Then I lean back in my seat and look his way, giving him a long, calm, unattached stare.

“What if I do?”

Snow’s face is red, betraying his embarrassment. I feel heat rise under my collar as I watch him conduct one of those delicious, showy swallows.

“I told you,” he says, “that I’d make you show me. Make you teach me. _Play_ me.”

I curl my lip. “And how do you plan on making me do any of that, Snow?”

He’s flushed and ruined, mumbling on and on about how he’d never _make me_ do anything. It’d _have to be my choice_. Who ever said chivalry was dead?

“Enough, Snow. Given our sordid past, I’d think you’d be elated at the prospect of me doing something shameful, just for you.” I hesitate, unable to resist running my tongue over my lips. “For your... _pleasure_.”

He jumps up out of his chair. “No! That’s not—I’d never—!” He looks truly horrified at the idea of me, shamed and exposed. I feel bad for even suggesting it. “Is that what this is? Because I don’t...I don’t _want_ —"

“ _Enough!_ ” I snap. And then, much softer, I add: “I was only teasing you, Snow. I know that our dear, virginal Chosen One would never be so debauched.”

He frowns, and it’s a beautiful sight to behold. That’s much better. I adore an A+ Snow strop, even more when he’s on-edge and ready to throw himself at me.

“Perhaps,” I whisper, aiming for alluring over alarming, this time, “I could tempt our hero to _indulge_ himself a little. Come here, Snow.” I stand, planting my hands flat on the desk and leaning forward enticingly. My torso hangs over the ring binder, spoiling any view he might have had of what it’s disguising. “You’ve finally got your nemesis in a vulnerable position—wouldn’t want to pass _that_ up, would you?”

He flounders, rocking back in his seat. If he’s not careful, he’s going to break it and find himself fumbling around on the floorboards. “I’m not—you’re just—”

I lick my lips and his eyes flash. “Go on,” I urge, angling my hips so he hopefully isn’t getting an eyeful of my rather painful erection. “Make me show you what’s behind this folder.”

My breath catches as he takes a stumbling step toward me. Yes, oh merciful Morgana, _yes!_

But then he’s muttering to himself, shaking his head and taking two steps back.

For Merlin’s sake, do I have to _beg_ him? I’m readying myself for protest, but Snow shoots me a dark look and my hands clutch the ring binder tightly.

“ _Show me,”_ he growls, and his voice makes my knees tremble. It’s the voice he’s used during many a scuffle. He has no idea what lengths I’d go to, what depths I’d plumb, all for that voice. For _him._

“What do you want me to do?” It comes out breathy. I can hardly hold myself up.

Snow’s gripping the back of his chair, looking me up and down. “Drop the folder,” he orders.

_Oh._

This is even better than him throwing himself at me.

My hands tremble with anticipation as I lift the ring binder, shifting my body so the desk’s contents remain agonisingly out of view, and drop it next to my bed. My heart’s galloping a mile a minute, but so is his—it’s getting hard to tell which is which.

Snow fixes his gaze on my arse. (It is, in all fairness, still thoroughly in the way of the desk.) He bites his lips as he stares, and it’s an effort not to roll my hips back and give him a _real_ show.

“Now,” he says, voice catching. His clears his throat and tries again. “Now move out of the way.”

I take a moment—partly to enjoy the simmering tension in the room, and partly to summon the nerve to actually _do_ this. This is nothing like the previous two times. I’m unprepared for what’s to come, with little in the way of strategy, despite this whole mess being all my own doing.

 _“Baz,”_ Snow snarls. My eyes flutter as he says my name, so heavy and dark in his mouth. There’s no way I can turn around and face him—at this rate, my cock might take his eye out. Keeping my eyes closed, I take two steps to the left, short of breath and full of shame.

Snow growls low in his throat at my unveiling.

He must know how badly I wanted to be found out. I’m not sure how long we stand here, breathing hard, me staring at Snow whilst he stares at the game set up on my desk.

“What,” he croaks, free of all authority now, “would you have done? Played yourself, with me sitting there?”

“Crowley, _no_ ,” I say, unimpressed with how pathetic I sound. “I’m not _that_ steady-handed.”

He swallows. “You wanted me to catch you, didn’t you, Baz?” When I don’t respond, he throws out a new order: _“Admit it.”_

“Yes!” I confess, to another low growl from Snow. Merlin, save my seam from splitting. “I wanted to see if you’d be good on your word.”

“Well, I’ve made you show me,” Snow says, drifting over to my side of the room. “What’s next?”

“Next…?” I whimper. He’s practically standing on top of me now, and I daren’t look down for fear of learning what’s become of my trousers. Instead I follow his eyes—it takes a great deal of effort for him to drag his gaze away from my desk and find my face again.

“You must know the rules, right?” he asks. “You must know...how to teach me.”

Sweet Keats above. Does he really think this is all part of a _lesson plan_?

“Actually,” I say, taking a step back, “it’s time for your assessment.” He twitches. (Education has always been _such_ a chore for him.) “Show me what you’ve learned, Snow.”

He indulges in one of his pornographic swallows, leaving me gasping for air. “A test?” he squeaks. “What do I have to do?”

“On the desk,” I say, after taking a moment to collect myself. “There’s a pair of tweezers.”

“Tweezers,” Snow murmurs to himself. He stumbles to the desk as if drawn to it, and drops to his knees. I nearly end myself, right here and now, at the sight of him. He roots around on the desk, pushing aside the instructions and spare plastic tokens.

“The clock’s running, Snow,” I snarl. I can’t handle standing idly by any longer. I _need_ this—I’m gagging for it.

Snow seems to rescue himself from whatever confusion he was facing—he raises a victorious hand, holding the tweezers aloft, then fixes me with a burning look.

“On the bed.”

I fucking _whimper_. That’s how far gone I am.

“On the bed, Baz.”

 _Make me,_ I think as I’m folding onto my bedspread, tucking my legs to one side and waiting impatiently for him to settle across from me. He places the game between us with reverence, and passes me the tweezers.

“Do you know what this is?” I whisper.

“Operation,” he says quietly, not taking his eyes off the body spread before us. “I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never...I’ve never seen it. Never thought I’d be here, that we’d…” He trails off, chest heaving. Over his shoulder I see tangible evidence of the heat that’s building in the room between us—the window’s fogging over.

I’m seriously debating changing the assessment, making him watch as I remove the man’s Adam’s apple whilst failing to tear my eyes off his own.

But Snow is here to _play_.

I lean over the game, pulling a pillow into my lap to hide my agony, and give Snow a sultry look. “Make a mistake, and…” I touch the tweezers against the man’s Wrenched Ankle, causing his nose to light up and a buzzing sound to fill the thinning gap between us. “He goes _off_ , Snow.”

His face is as red as the light.

“I put in fresh batteries this morning,” I purr. “We can go all night, if you’re up for it.”

He smirks and snatches the tweezers from my hand. I hold my breath, then release it as his fingers grip the side of the operating board. He lowers his hand, hovering over the man’s exposed Spare Ribs—he starts to pull on it. It looks nothing at all like when I do it. I have no idea what his approach will be, his pacing or technique.

I’m horrifically aroused, trapped in a hell of my own making.

It’s as he slowly drags the rib out of the man that I’m left open and gasping, firm in the knowledge that there’s nowhere I’d rather be. Snow’s breaths come hot and heavy, as if _he’s_ the one left overstimulated by such an unbelievably erotic sight.

I watch through hooded eyes as he gracelessly drops the ribs in my lap. He hovers the tweezers in front of my face; I meet his gaze and watch him worry his lip with his tongue. I’m reminded of every single sinful thing I’ve ever wanted to do to his terrible mouth.

“Not yet,” I rasp, pushing the tweezers away. “You didn’t set the buzzer off. You keep going until you do.” He blinks at me. “Take all you can, Snow. Keep taking until there’s nothing left.” He continues to stare at me. I remember the flimsy premise I’d built, and claw desperately for it. “This is a comprehensive exam, Snow. What do you recall of your first lesson?”

His face twists thoughtfully. He’s still licking at his lip, and it’s driving me fucking insane. Then his face lights up with what he hopes is the correct answer.

“ _Oh!"_

“That’s right,” I gasp. “That’s good, Snow. That’s very good.”

The courageous fuck bends down, his head low over the board, and grasps my hand with his own. He forces the tweezers between my fingers, and with his breath dancing over my sensitive skin, leads me to the Charley Horse embedded in the man’s hip. “Slowly,” he moans. “That was the first lesson. Everything was so _slow_.”

Fuck me. Is this what I made him feel like, when I guided him through his first chess moves? When I slid his knight around the board, and surrendered up my king to him? Does being battered into submission by the man you love make defeat that much sweeter? That much more overwhelming?

Most likely. As I melt into nothing under his touch, all I remain sure of is _him_. His breath against my hand, his fingers over mine, his nails digging into my thumb as he squeezes the tweezers tightly, tightly, _tighter_. His wet tongue swipes patterns along his lips, and I’m in thrall to him. (Ironically.) I feel boneless and broken. Together we draw out the plastic horse, both of us gasping and grunting with effort, our focus narrowed to the thin piece of plastic we remove from the board and drop into my lap, alongside the ribs.

He’s unsteady, wary, charmingly eager. I want to reach over and take his wrist, plunge his hand under the pillow. I want him to operate on me with his slow, careful hands.

I’m aware of the string of nonsense that’s falling from my lips, but I’m powerless to stop it. That’s two successful operations for Snow, now, and he’s going back for more. All I am is heat and ache, watching him suck on his lip as he bends over the Funny Bone, clamping on securely and tugging it free.

“That... _urgh…_ ” I lean back on my elbows, my arms no longer capable of keeping me upright. “That’s enough.”

“Mmm?” Snow mumbles, sweat beading on his forehead. It’s supremely difficult to ask him to stop when he’s concentrating with such reckless abandon.

I dig my heels into the bed and say again: “That’s enough, Snow.” Then he tries to do that thing with the funny bone that he did with the ribs, and the board lights up in a fury.

“S-sorry!” he gasps, falling back on his side of the bed. “Got carried away.”

“I’ve never seen you so—attentive—in an exam,” I say, my voice as unsteady as the rest of me. (Except for my cock. That part is still unerringly sure of itself.)

Snow clears his throat and passes the tweezers back to me. I hand him the extricated ribs and horse. Exchanging plastic organs is far from the most intimate thing we’ve done together, yet when our fingers brush, a rush of heat flares through me. I have to look away before I’m set alight where we lie.

“Part two, then?” Snow asks, sounding as shaky as I do.

“Yes,” I gasp, and Snow doesn’t hesitate this time. The second I agree, he’s picking up the playing pieces and pushing them back inside the body, nudging the metal edging with his thumb and fingers. “Oh, Crowley, _yes._ ”

“ _Fuck, Baz,”_ Snow hisses, as he has considerable trouble pushing the spare ribs back into the correct hole. It’s almost enough to make me come, there and then. Him saying my name like that, as though he has to drudge it up from somewhere deep in his chest, practically splits me apart with pleasure.

It takes all my restraint to keep myself from tossing the game aside and forcing myself on him. “What was our second lesson?” I gasp, dragging my eyes away from the filled board.

“Strategy,” he says. I moan as he reaches over for the tweezers. It’s my turn, but we both know I’m in no fit state to continue. I _groan_ as he goes straight for the Writer’s Cramp, the small pencil trapped in the man’s forearm. “Pay attention to your opponent. Never...never stop watching him. _Learn_ from his moves.”

I whimper as he grips the pencil and begins his assault. When he doesn’t begin tugging on it right away, I full on _whine_ for it.

“Ready?” he growls.

 _“Yes!”_ I want to scream. “ _Take it! Take the pencil!”_

Instead, I pant: “This is _your_ assessment, Snow. You tell me— _oh!”_ I watch the pencil land in my lap before the tweezers slam back into the board again. It’s a good job I’m already practically sprawled across the bed, because there’s no chance of my knees doing anything besides buckling further.

“I think you’re ready.” Snow does it again, pushing the tweezers slowly into the hole in the man’s chest, angling for the Wish Bone. I almost see stars.

Great snakes, what I wouldn’t give for him to have his hands around _me_ , and not those fucking tweezers. I want to feel his fingers around my wrist again, the strain of his arm as he lowers himself over _my_ organ...I take immeasurable satisfaction in imagining that it really _is_ his hand, reaching for mine again. It’s not difficult—he’s right in front of me, radiating heat, groaning with each prod and poke at the board as if in sympathy with the transplant victim’s plight. It’s my most realistic fantasy yet. I squeeze the sides of the board, begging him to go in again, go in _harder_ , without mercy. 

I collapse back on my bed, arms floppy across my chest, fingers scrabbling for whatever purchase I can find as Snow ravishes the operating table with his nimble fingers. He’s not too rough, though I feel like I’m crumbling. I was expecting to be reamed within an inch of my life, but Snow is more thorough than aggressive. His pace and intensity are no more wild than anything I’ve done to myself in his presence. He’s clumsy, true to his nature, but still _so careful_ about the whole thing.

I needn’t be surprised. Snow has always been exceedingly good at noticing the little things—this isn’t all that different, is it? (These organs are _tiny_. And anatomically incorrect, but that’s neither here nor there.)

I’ve never been so thrilled to be bested by him on the battlefield.

I groan out my pleasure, letting him know exactly how pleased I am with his conquest. Snow releases dark rumbles in response. I can only hope the noises I’m making are affecting him half as much as his are affecting me.

Snow’s pace slows—I look up and see that he is grinding slightly into his other hand. My mouth goes dry.

Unable to keep his hand steady and give himself what he needs (it would be an utter lie to claim that I don’t need it too), the board lets out a buzz and lights up. We both jump.

“For Crowley’s sake, Snow—!” I reach out and snatch the tweezers from him, far harder than I need to.

“Sorry!” Snow blusters.

“You can’t just slam around in there!”

“Sorry, sorry! I was just—ah....” He’s all red-faced, caught in the act. “I didn’t know.”

“Obviously,” I huff. Because that’s easier than addressing the fact that Simon Snow is sitting opposite me, leaning over a game with a raging boner that I’m somehow responsible for.

We both just...stare—me, at Snow’s erection; Snow, at my reaction. And to add to my horror, we both gulp at the same time.

“Do you—” I clear my throat. “Do you often rub your prick in the middle of exams, Snow?”

“Fuck off, Baz,” he snarls. As if I didn’t have enough trouble staving off an erection whenever he sounds like that, now I’ll never be able to elicit such a reaction without remembering this exact moment. And judging by the wild glint in his eye, I think that’s exactly what he wants.

I lick my lips slowly—Snow watches with undisguised interest. “I believe that is the end of your turn.”

Snow emits a short, strangled laugh, then removes his hand from the side of the board and rather unbelievably, looks me in the eye as he resumes stroking his cock.

“Good,” I purr. (My mouth is watering.) “Keep your hands away from the board, but keep your eyes on me. I’d hate to deduct more points.”

“I’m sure you would.” Snow gives his cock another tug—I moan. It’s good, but the game is afoot— I can’t let him distract me from beating him soundly. (Oh, to beat him soundly.)

“B...Baz?”

Snow’s hesitant voice breaks me from my stupor. I blink at him. He’s staring at me. 

“What?”

“Your turn,” he tries. “Please, I need you to.”

“Oh.” 

I lean in, focusing on Butterflies in Stomach. (For I am a man who delights in ridiculous irony.) I’m shaking like a rank amateur, shame biting at my very core. He takes my hand to steady me.

“There you are,” Snow says.

We’re both doing our best to sound normal, like I’m letting him borrow some lube rather than hold me still so that I can better ram my tweezers in. 

The butterflies jerk free. I moan harder at that than when he was stroking his cock.

Snow’s brazen enough to smirk at me. He holds tighter and leans even further in, which also means he has full view of my face. I don’t look away in shame this time. I let him see my pinched, flushed expression as we begin pushing the toy back inside, and I relish in the sight of his own expression of pleasure as he gives himself a long tug.

I’m back to gasping when we successfully remove the Bread Basket. A thrill runs through me when I realize he’s pleasuring himself to the same beat.

Is it too much to dream that Snow’s imagining the same thing I am? I don’t care how _confused_ he thinks he is—no straight man would play like this: so _sure_ , so certain with another man. Especially not in time with his own wanking, and most assuredly not while maintaining lusty eye contact with said bloke.

 _Take what you want_ , I’m yearning to say. Use me. _Please, please, please..._

I can’t bring myself to be so unabashed with my desperation. There’s no need, anyway—he’s guiding us in for the penultimate piece. (Broken Heart, ignite me now.) I’ve been teased and pleasured for far too long, and observing the intricacies of Simon’s tactics is the final straw. My cock is fit to explode. I don’t even have to rub myself. 

“Oh, fuck, Baz— _fuck_ —so, God, you're so—fuck—!” Snow’s vocalisations are increasingly breathy and daft, and I hate that I find it as hot as I do. He picks up the piece.

I’m wordlessly begging him for release with every part of me—my fluttering moans, the rocking of my hips, my watery and unwavering gaze. 

Aleister Crowley, he gives it all to me in spades.

Simon holds me relentlessly, until we thrust the tweezers down one last time and snatch up the Ankle Bone Connected to the Knee Bone. Then I’m crying out and shuddering. But he keeps going, slower but no less determined. He takes out pieces we’ve already removed once. He’s insatiable, determined. He doesn’t stop until he’s eked out every last drop of my pleasure, until the board is clear. 

And all the while he’s growling for me. Low, breathy nonsense. 

“Yeah, Baz. Fuck. Fuck yeah. That’s it. That’s it, Baz, there you go. Good. _Fuck_. Look at you. Good, so good, Baz. Good boy. That’s it.”

I watch through hazy, tearful eyes as Simon stares at his ministrations with feverish focus. He’s using the sight of me to get off—I moan with exhausted delight.

“Come for me, Snow,” I purr before I can think better of it.

It could be a coincidence, but it’s just as I say it that Simon snaps his teeth in a wanton growl and shudders. So this is what being used by Simon Snow feels like: getting played senseless while he praises you and strokes himself to completion.

Merlin and Morgana....this is dangerous. 

Reckless.

Torture.

“Um,” Snow gasps. 

“What?” I snap. I focus on spelling any potential mess into the bin.

“Uh. Well. Uh.”

Snow seems more befuddled than usual. I shoot him an icy glance. He’s just staring at me. I raise my eyebrow at his softening expression. 

“Uh, um—!”

“Spit it out, Snow.”

“D-do I pass?”

Seven hells.

“Flying colours,” I announce flatly. “Congratulations! Won’t the Mage be proud!”

Snow blusters at the sudden change in mood. I storm into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, but it does nothing to block the heavy stench of his bubbling magic. Good—that will mask the scent of our misdeeds nicely.

I can’t allow this to ever happen again.


	4. Fourth Time

**SIMON**

I've got to figure out how to make it happen again.

Whatever's happening between Baz and me, I mean.

Well. Nothing's really happening between us, just...we kind of keep playing with each other.

Okay. Maybe it's more than that.

I don't know what it is. I don't know what's going on.

All I know is I want more.

It’s been over a week since I last played him—nine days. That’s a weird thing to fixate on, innit? The last time I played him?

I’ve barely even seen Baz since then. He’s still in bed when I leave for breakfast, and he comes in from the Catacombs well past midnight. Other than seeing him in the dining hall and in class, he’s like a ghost. A fucking hot, rebellious, sexy ghost.

I’ve not been following him. I wanted to...to give him some space. Give me some space, too. Don’t know what to do with the space, though.

My thoughts jump back to Baz whenever I’m not occupied (and even then). I’ve spent a lot of time in the shower but not even that works. My brain is too full of him.

I can’t help it. Baz is...well, he’s disgustingly fit, isn’t he? He’s all graceful limbs and lean muscles, with perfect hair and long lashes and smoky eyes that make my spine tingle. And he’s got that bloody brain that makes every game so hard, pushes me to my absolute limits and then some. 

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I’m seeing spots, but spots turn into counters, and counters just set me the fuck off.

It’s well after dinner and I’m alone in our room, sitting in bed and thinking about Baz. Of course. It’s not a new problem. My thoughts never used to be like this, though. Never used to be full of forbidden games and the breathy way he sounds when he begs _more, Snow..._

I’m panicking. A bit. It’s...not that bad. Because I always knew that I needed to face him—we were made to compete. 

I want to play more matches with him.

I want so much more than what he’s given me.

I think I'm screwed.

I'm not exactly sure how it happened...but at some point, while I was tweezers deep in some bloke’s torso, it all started to make sense. The truth, I mean. About all of this, about why I'm doing all of this.

I’m attracted to Baz Pitch.

And that. Well. That’s right terrifying.

It’s been nine days (and four hours), and I’m getting more and more desperate. I’ve never felt like this before, forget another guy. It’s not just his drop dead stunning arse or his lush mouth—I want his brain, I want the challenge. I need him across from me trying to break me down.

Does that make me gay?

I’d know if I was gay, wouldn’t I?

I think it’s just a Baz thing. And a game thing. An extension of wanting to see him undone.

We haven’t fought as much lately. I’m spoiling for an altercation with him, but I know it will be hollow. Because I don’t want a quick shove. I want my hand on his, poised to make a move. Only being locked together in rivalry over a board will fill me up.

I just. I want. I don’t know. I just want him. Nothing else is working. I’m at my wits end.

I can’t stop thinking about Baz’s games. About the counters, about watching him use the tweezers, about getting to do it to him myself. About the idea of him plotting and playing and about what that must look like.

Good, I bet. He makes everything look _so_ fucking good.

He makes it look so good, I’m well tempted to try it myself.

I mean. It must be pleasurable, if he can get off on that alone. The stuff he did with me was brilliant—what must it feel like to do it alone? There’s an ache in my crotch just thinking about it—an ache somewhere deep I’ve never felt before.

I want something to play.

Can’t very well just walk up to Baz and ask for it though, can I? _“Hey mate, fancy shoving your pieces round my board?”_ Baz would set me on fire. (I’d probably set myself on fire.)

I could do it solo. Maybe once I get it out of my system, some of my fantasies about Baz will bugger off. I should try it. I understand the basics well enough—start slow, use your strategy, keep your hand steady.

He’ll kill me if he catches me.

But he’s not here, so...if I’m quick and careful, maybe I can pull this off?

I push myself off my bed and kneel next to his. The box should be under here...as long as I put everything back where it was, he’ll never know, right? (I don’t think the box is spelled—I didn’t notice him casting anything on it, when he pulled it out before.)

I bend down, my heart hammering.

This is fine. This is good. It’s not like I’m stealing anything.

I gulp and peer under his bed. Hang on, shouldn’t it be right here…? It’s gone! Baz changed the hiding spot? (That _prick_.)

I do a proper sweep under the bed with my arm, to make sure he didn’t spell it invisible. Nothing. Then I check under his desk...more nothing. I scowl, looking around at his side of the room. Where else could it be? Behind the nightstand? In the wardrobe? Should I cast a finding spell, or just tear through the room like a bull in a china shop?

Speed is of the essence. Spells are faster.

I grab my wand and point to Baz’s side of the room, focusing on the details of Baz’s game box. Right then…

**_“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”_ **

The wardrobe doors start rattling. I hold my breath and keep my wand steady. _That’s it, that’s it! Come on!_

The doors fly open, and because it’s just my luck, the door to our bedroom opens at the same time. I whip my head around to see Baz striding in, just as the game box comes flying out of the wardrobe and smacks me in the face.

 _“Jesus bloody fucking-!”_ I shout. My wand lands on top of the box as I double over, clutching my head.

“What in the name of magic are you doing?”

Baz slams the door shut behind him. I’m rubbing my battered face, but I can hear his footsteps as he strides over to the wardrobe and closes those doors, too.

“What stupidity are you partaking in this time, Snow?”

 _“Urgh,_ ” is about all I can manage in reply.

“Did you cast a finding spell on my box?” He’s almost laughing—I’m surprised he isn’t pissed off with me.

“No! Yes! But—” I wipe along my cheek and check my sleeve. No blood, which is good. (Fucking hurts, though.) “I was... _argh._ ”

Baz snorts. “If you wanted to be slapped in the face with my brilliance _that_ badly, there are other means.”

My jaw drops. “Wh-wha? No! I... _urgh…!”_

He tips his head back and laughs. “Crowley, look at you! What a tragedy you are, Simon Snow.”

I growl and give his chair leg a kick. “Piss off! I just wanted a game!”

Baz gives me a cruel, teasing look that makes my stomach wrap itself in knots. “You shouldn’t be invading my privacy like that,” he says, “but I’ll let you off the hook this time, seeing as your predicament is so unbelievably pathetic.”

“Cheers,” I grunt.

“How entertaining! The Chosen One breaks his face on his nemesis’s toy box.”

I kick his chair again, more feebly this time. “Yeah, alright, go on then—laugh it up while you can.” I stomp over to my side of the room and fall face down on my bed.

Baz picks up the box, placing it on his bed so he can open it and rearrange the contents. He closes the lid, and I’m wondering how I’ll ever live this down when I realise he’s still holding one of the games. He doesn’t put it away.

My pulse picks up. (He’s right. I _am_ pathetic.) Baz stares at me, eyebrow arched, lip curled in a smirk, circling his long fingers over the lid.

“Well?” he says.

“W-well what?”

“You want this, don’t you?”

“Um, well…” I push myself up into a sitting position. “Yeah. Yeah, I want it.”

Baz’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Now that you’ve played a few games, you’ve realised the fun of breaking the Mage’s foolish little rules?”

“N-no, I don’t…” I huff, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, yeah, alright—I like it, okay? I like the games.” I yank at my hair, turning away. I can’t stand to watch him, stroking the lid like that.

“And what did you plan to do with this, had you got your hands on it?”

“I wanted to—to, urm—” My face is burning.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Baz murmurs, holding back a giggle. “You wanted to play with yourself!”

“You’re the fucking _worst_ ,” I moan, hiding my head in my hands. (What is pride? Do I have any? Did I ever?)

Baz hums to himself, all soft and velvety. A shiver tracks down my spine.

“What happened to games being wicked?” he asks dangerously.

I peer between my fingers at him. “Changed my mind, didn’t I?”

Baz grins. My chest feels tight. “Need another lesson?”

“Yeah,” I say, far too quickly. His eyebrow shoots up. “You haven’t taught me about dice yet. So. Yeah. Yes please.”

I can see the way his jaw works, even from here—was he trying to call my bluff? He sucks in a breath and strides over to my bed, clearing his throat. “Right. Go and clean up. Both hands and behind the ears, Snow—you’re a sweaty mess.”

I jump up, way too eager for my own good, and practically go skipping to the bathroom. I can’t help it—I’ve been yearning to beat him for nine days, and it’s been far too long since _he_ beat _me._ I’m throbbing just thinking about it. I wonder if he’ll let me guide his hand again…

Merlin, I can’t believe this is happening.

I’m more than half-hard by the time I’ve finished scrubbing my hands clean. (He’s right, I _am_ sweaty.) That’s when I realise I’m still wearing my trackie bottoms, and if it gets anything like last time, he’s going to see _everything_. I chew my fingers nervously.

Baz already saw me touching myself last time. We both got off, so...it’s probably fine, right?

He stared at me.

A lot, actually.

Then it hits me: I think Baz is attracted to me, too.

He’s got to be, right? If he watched me wank myself off over a game of Operation? He seemed proper into it...into _me._ He even said my name. (My last name, but still.) It’s not like he was imagining himself with someone else, was he?

Fuck. Now I’m _really_ nervous.

Merlin, don’t make it weird. (All of this is weird.)

So maybe...maybe I’m a _little_ bit gay? For Baz. That’s fine.

And maybe he’s a little bit gay for me. (Or just gay in general. No idea.)

It doesn't matter. Baz is out there, willing and waiting to face me over another board game. That’s the important part for now. And I don’t _think_ it’s a plot.

I take a deep breath and straighten my spine. _Let’s do this._

I exit the bathroom, pretending to feel confident. Baz looks up from where he’s lounging on his bed—Why is he clipping his nails? Is this really the time?—and lifts both eyebrows when he sees me.

“Are you clean?”

“Y-yeah. Your bed or mine?”

Baz looks gobsmacked. I know why. I didn’t do a very good job of calming myself down in the bathroom; he’s staring at the outline of my cock with that same dark, hungry look as last time. His lips are parted, and I think he’s barely containing a blush. (Honestly, it’s hard to tell with his complexion.) Fuck, my cock’s jumping at the thought of making Baz blush. His eyebrows reach new heights.

“Baz?”

He twitches, then quickly looks away. He pats the mattress beside him, and shuffles over to the edge while I get comfortable next to him.

I’m on Baz’s bed again. It smells like him. I can’t believe I’m here.

“Wait—do I need to be across from you?”

“You’re fine where you are,” he says tersely, setting down the nail clippers. He then jumps up and goes to the bathroom to wash his own hands. “Oils,” he says over his shoulder. “Natural oils in your skin, you see. Not good for the dice.”

This is really happening.

I stare at the ceiling and think about how different things look from this side of the room. That’s a pretty normal thought. (I think.)

Baz rushes back, fluffing the pillows before he sits back down and settles in beside me. I plant my feet on the mattress and lift my hips so I can adjust my trackies, painfully aware of his eyes following me, dragging along the curve of my arse.

This is _really happening_.

Baz’s eyes have barely left my crotch—it’s making me painfully hard. He looks ready to eat me.

Fuck. Part of me hopes he does.

I remind myself that Baz is a vampire. It’s difficult to care about that right now, even with him looking all sharklike and cruel. If anything, it makes me even hotter. (It shouldn’t. Like, logically, I know that. But also, fuck logic.)

I let my knees fall open. Baz wets his lips. He places the box between us and slowly, _slowly_ removes the lid.

“So...h-how does this work?” My voice comes out as a squeak. I frown.

“Well, for starters…” Baz begins, reaching in for the board. My heart rate picks up in anticipation. (Can hear hear that? Probably.) “We need to get you nice and relaxed.”

“I am relaxed,” I say. (I’m not.)

Baz smirks. “No need to act tough, Snow. You look ready to leap out of your skin at any moment, and your magic is currently offending all known senses.”

I frown more. He’s right. (He’s always right.) “Just...just shut up and get on with it.”

“Are you always this bossy during lessons?” Baz asks with a grim smile. I spread my legs wider without meaning to.

“Give me…give me more lessons, and maybe you’ll find out.”

I hold his gaze for as long as I can, despite how my face is burning. He huffs, and I’m not sure if he’s scoffing or laughing at me, which is typical. Then he’s sliding down the bed to lie next to me, hands closing around a plastic die, shifting two plastic counters onto the board.

“Ready, then?” Baz’s breath washes over me. His shirt has lifted during his journey down the bed, and I’ve got a stellar view of his exposed hip. My eyes nearly roll back into my head.

I gulp, steadying myself. I can’t look—Baz’s tilted hips so close to my erection are _far_ too much. “Y-yeah. Show me what to do.”

“Relax,” he hisses, letting the die tumble around in his palm. I jerk involuntarily, longing to snatch it from him. “This is like no game we’ve played before, Snow. No amount of strategy will help you this time—when the dice roll, we give ourselves over to _chance_.”

Baz growls. He tosses the die and we both watch it clatter across the board. It settles and we stare at it, his hand on my wrist to hold me still. Keeping me in my place. _Great snakes._

Just as I’m worried I’ve gone mad with anticipation, Baz _finally_ moves his counter. I release a long groan as Baz’s long fingers shift the red piece one, two, three squares along the board. It’s good and not enough, all at the same time. He lands on a ladder and slides his piece along its length, stopping on the next row. I jerk my hips in desperation, which just makes Baz tighten his grip on the smooth, round piece.

“If you land on a ladder, you go up,” he says breathily. “Land on a snake and you slide all...the way... _down_.”

“ _Fuck.”_

He gives it to me, then—the die—the warm, solid surety of it, hot in my outstretched hand. I yelp and buck at the strangeness of it. And— _Merlin almighty_ —it’s even firmer than I’d imagined.

“Yeah... _yeah,_ Baz—” I dig my free hand into the sheets. I’m panting already.

As the game progresses, I realise that Baz’s technique is different this time. He’s slower and less crazed than when we played Operation, but no less into it, if the low moans he’s making mean what I think they do. I can’t resist watching him, stalling in my ascent along a ladder to drink him in. It’s a dizzying sight. Baz’s eyes are closed, his brow furrowed like the game is some complex problem he’s desperate to solve. I’m so fucking grateful.

It’s wild— _unthinkable_ —that Baz Pitch is stretched out beside me, sliding his fingers along the length of the long, winding snake lurking on square 26. I moan noisily as he places his counter on top of mine, all the way back on square 14.

His assault is calm and infuriating. If I roll a four, he rolls a five. If I stumble on a waiting snake, he shimmies his way up a ladder, teasing me relentlessly. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s got me wound up and relaxing, all at the same time. I’m a trembling mess of nerves.

 _I could come from this_ , I think. But I don’t want to. Not yet. I need _more_ —I need to beat him to the finish, to the top of the grid. I’m not deterred by Baz’s crushing grip on the die—I try to grind into the bed without him noticing, desperation for friction. _I need more._ I’m aching all over for Baz’s wrist as he flicks the die expertly, watching his back longingly as he arches into the roll.

“Baz...come on! _More!”_

A long tremor rips through me when Baz slides straight past a snake, the menacing look he gives me pinning me to the bed. _Fuck_. Does he know what effect he’s having on me? (He must. These trackies hide _nothing._ )

Still, I’m nothing if not scrappy, and no matter how deliriously hot it is to have Baz beating me, I’m not about to _let_ him win.

“Come on, _come on_ …” I whine, rolling a six. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, rocking his hips with each slide of my counter. “Higher... _higher…_ ”

I shiver as Baz rolls a five and lands on a snake, sliding agonisingly down each teasing coil to meet with me once more. He draws the edge of his counter over mine, leaving it there to balance precariously. I roll a disappointing one, and he follows it up with a three, sending him along _another_ long, rigid, unforgiving ladder. He’s almost at the top, now. He only needs a two and he’s there. I nearly lose my mind thinking about it. A whole mess of strangled sounds fall out of me.

 _My God_ —

Baz hands me the die, smoothing his hand down his leg so he can tug at his trousers. My thighs throb from the effort of hiding my erection—I probably shouldn’t be so turned on by the sight of him doing this to himself, but still.

Baz palms himself, distracting me from the game. _Fuck_. My breath hitches. Is this it? I roll a four and meet another snake, and he crosses the finish line without me?

His eyes are wild. I roll, and Baz makes this dark sound that’s got to be involuntary.

 _“Ohhh,_ ” I groan as I summon up a six, my counter skipping along the board and sliding the full length of the longest ladder in the game. It feels _good_. I can’t believe how good it feels, making Baz tremble like this.

His hand is shaking so much, I’m not sure he can even roll. Fuck, it’s hard to think—hard to _breathe_. A hot, slippery pressure consumes me from the inside out as I imagine him taking the game. Claiming it. I gasp and shudder.

Forget fighting. _This_ is the way Baz should take me apart. With one die and a plastic counter.

Baz is unconcerned as he rolls a one and lands on the game’s final snake. He allows me the mercy of a few caught-up squares, then rests back against his pillows, enjoying the view as I struggle past another treacherous snake. I hand him the die and he moans, diving back in. I choke out a wordless plea, and then he’s pushing forward, sliding his counter along square after square. I twitch next to him as he hooks his thumb under the end of the board, breaching the final row.

 _Yes! Please!_ The part of me that’s aching to submit is screaming out, wanting to be broken.

“Baz....!” I gulp at nothing, wresting the die from his damp hand. “I need...a four…!”

“Oh, Snow,” Baz purrs, nuzzling his face into my hair. I drop the die, knocking the counters out of place. I think I might die. “Don’t worry.” He runs his thumb down the side of my trackies, a barely-there sensation that tugs at me in the strangest, most thrilling way. “You’ll get your four.”

It’s a promise that sounds like a threat, and it makes me shudder. I grab at the die again, rolling wide and free for him. It skitters off, coming to a stop by his outstretched legs.

“Do it,” I beg. “Show me what it says.”

Baz torments the die with his thumb, threatening to roll it over, before sitting up and removing his other hand from me. I’m left cold and empty, shivering with desperation, worried I’m about to explode. (With magic or come, it’s hard to tell.) (Probably both.)

My chest is heaving, my cock is throbbing, and I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life. _Baz_ —I want _Baz,_ I want—

His eyes are fiery, locked onto mine. He’s holding the die between two pinched fingers, staring at me like he’s trying to puzzle me out. It feels like actual torture, lying here spread and exposed and pathetically eager for him to destroy me.

“ _Baz,”_ I whine, straining to see the number. “Hurry.”

His lips twist into a smirk. His hand drops to his trousers again. “I’m just enjoying the moment, Snow. Burning it into my memory.” Fuck, I hope so.

He leans closer, making my breath catch. Bracing himself on one arm, his hair tumbles in his face, making me light-headed. His other hand, the one holding the die, glides over to hover in front of my face.

“Three,” I complain. It isn’t enough. I can’t catch him this time, and if he rolls a three himself, he wins. Honestly though, it’s a relief. 

I mean. I’ve been begging for it, so I know what’s about to happen, and we’ve leading up to it this whole time—but now it’s _actually happening!_

Chance. Baz is going to beat me by _chance._

“Relax,” he murmurs. Can he tell how nervous I am?

I swallow tightly, nodding. I close my eyes and try to focus on the sensation as his free hand presses into me again...his fingers curl over me, palm and fingers cupping my hip, cool and calming. I feel the light pressure of his middle finger circling a mole, coaxing me, willing me to give in completely. _Throw the game, Snow. Stop trying. Give in to chance._

I moan and gasp and grip myself over my trousers. I squirm, but I don’t know if I’m trying to move towards him or away.

Baz releases a small huff as he finally rolls a three. The jammy bastard. He holds his counter in place for a moment, and suddenly it’s too much not to be looking at him. I whimper when I realise he’s been watching my face, and not the final snake, as he goes sailing past it to claim the finish square. I’ve got no idea what expression I’m making right now; all of me feels tight and flushed and confused.

Baz’s expression is muddled, too. He’s blushing, which feels fucking amazing—is he enjoying this? He must be. He’s won. I squeeze on his hand as he lands on the final square, which makes his jaw tense. I think it feels good for him. I relax somewhat, and I roll my hip slowly into his hand. His eyes flash, breath coming rougher now, and that’s when my nerves melt away completely.

“Another round, Snow?”

I nod, rearranging the counters quickly, desperate to go again. He rolls a six to start but stays completely still, his thumb still digging into my hip. I glance down at him and attempt to lift my own eyebrow, though it probably isn’t as effective as when he does it.

“You just,” I pant, “going to leave your counter there?”

Baz licks his bottom lip. (Thank magic for that mouth.) “I was going to go on easy on you. But since you’re such a slag for it, I’ll abandon all such notions.”

“G-good— _ah!_ ” I toss my head to the side as Baz moves his piece all six spaces in one long, fluid movement. “Because I’d hate,” — I roll a two — “to start thinking,” — he rolls a four— “that you’re, _hnnghh,_ g-growing,”—a one, thrown so hard it bounces across the board—“ _ah!_ —s-soft for me, Baz.”

Baz’s drawn out snarl makes my whole body light up. He sounds so good. Fuck he _feels_ so good! It’s not weird anymore. His wrist flicks as he rolls again, firm and with purpose, cruel like his expression.

“F-fuck...fuck yeah, Baz…”

Baz leans over me with a dark grin. I squirm—he’s over me and in my head, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Not yet…” I try to sound teasing, but it comes out a shaky mess. “Don’t stop. Not ‘til I’m satisfied.”

Baz’s eyes fall shut as he moans. Oh Merlin, oh fuck—he’s so _hot_ —why did it take me so long to realise how fucking _hot_ he is?

I can’t lament lost time for too long, because once Baz recovers his sense, he attacks me more harshly. The die falls in his favour, sending him shooting along a ladder, leaving me far behind in his wake. A yell rips out of me as I tumble down a snake. The next thing I know I’m scrambling, begging for a six, rolling onto my front and digging my toes into the mattress, fighting the urge to rut into the sensation.

“There you go,” Baz rumbles lushly. “That’s the spot.”

The fucker. He zooms along another long, cruel ladder.

 _“Yeah,”_ I try to say, though it sounds more like a garbled whine. _“That’s the spot, alright.”_

My body’s sparking (not literally). I’ve never felt like this. It’s so similar to the hazy way I fall apart when I’m about to go off, all of me condensed into the electric pressure of the dice.

“Oh. Oh, Merlin. Oh, fuck. Baz. _God_. Yeah. Yeah, Baz. God, fuck, I can’t—Baz!”

I’m frantic as I fall apart—I’m losing, slipping back, going down over and over again, with Baz expertly climbing the board. _Beating_ me.

“Yes, Snow,” I can hear him murmuring. "That’s it. There you go. Beautiful, Snow. So _desperate._ Slipping so far behind for me.”

I can see him watching me, not concentrating nearly hard enough on the game. I tear my gaze away from the board and look him straight in his beautiful, stupid, smug face. The muscles in my forearm twitch and I give in to my worst self. I should be ashamed but I’m just turned on even more.

“You’re gonna lose.”

A laugh rolls out of Baz, stroking my senses. 

“Likely not.”

I whimper as he takes his turn—a three—then I roll a four and push the counter up to the top row, only then realizing how tightly wound all my muscles were. I’m drenched in sweat and panting hard. All of me feels fuzzy, untethered—wicked.

I was a coward that first time. I lost, rather than taking what I needed. I won’t be a coward again.

“You look uncomfortable,” I say. My voice is hoarse.

“I’ve spotted a small issue,” Baz replies.

“Really?” I try to sound innocent. (Or at least not guilty.)

Baz’s mouth forms a grim line, and I swear he’s getting harder. “Do you see it yourself, or do I need to continue?”

“You—I...I might have—fuck it. Baz, I cheated.”

“You said it, not me.” Baz moves so close to me that I nearly come right then and there. I shudder hard. “Well,” I gasp, “at least you know what I’m up to, like this.”

Baz arcs his perfect eyebrow. “Is this what you think enemies do to keep an eye on each other, Snow?”

“It’s working, innit?” I press myself against him. “Got you right where I want you.”

“Yes,” Baz chokes out, “masterfully manipulated.”

“Come on.” I shift, letting my leg find its way over his arse. “Play me again. I won’t cheat this time...I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“I think our trust might be gone, Snow.”

Don’t be stubborn. Play with me.” I stroke the dice into his hand and press my erection into his hip. Baz’s nostrils flare.

“You’re a menace,” Baz growls. “A pushy, gluttonous nightmare.”

“Mmm.” I sigh and squirm, tugging on my lip with my teeth. “You’ve yet to make me regret it.”

I’m not sure if that was exactly the right thing or the wrong thing to say. Baz suddenly straightens up, a wicked sense of composure coming over him. He nudges his hip into me, causing me to moan pitifully. Then he sweeps the counters back to the start. I just lie there, aching and at his mercy—all I can do is watch his hands smoothly roll the die, and move his counter to freedom. He hits a ladder straight away.

I swallow, my throat dry and tight.

Can being a bad winner be attractive? Because that’s what Baz is. I wonder if he’s as wrecked with arousal as I am. He’s definitely moving his hips under my thigh. I suck on my lip.

Baz’s eyes are fixed on the board, heavy and frightening in all the ways I like. I can’t resist rolling the die myself when I see his turn, and I definitely can’t resist when he’s looking at me like that. I rarely get his undivided attention for this long—it’s doing horrible, amazing things to me. I need him to do horrible, amazing things to me more, with his fingers and his games.

Those fingers of his are shaking as he plucks up the die. He stares me down briefly (he doesn’t trust me; I can’t be trusted) then rolls. He strokes my hand—I release a breathy groan.

Baz wastes no time moving forward. I blurt out a “Merlin, yeah, please”, which makes his harsh mouth curl into a grin. I roll again and this time I pass him—that ladder is _huge_. My eyes go wide.

“That’s right,” Baz coos. “It’s just what you want, isn’t it?”

I’m honestly past giving a fuck who wins. 

Still...it’s agonizingly hot to know that’s what he’s thinking. I want him to want it, even if I don’t want it myself. Or something. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what any of this means.

What I do know is that Baz is right behind me. (In the game. He’s right under me on the bed. Fuck.) I wonder if he really does want me to regret it or if he just knows I can handle it, because he’s brutal this time, not giving me any adjustment period at all. Just taking turn after turn as I moan and tremble over him.

I can see my hand moving the counter and can feel the dice in my palm, but I have no idea how I’m playing. Rubbish, probably. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the feel of my cock on his hip and his gorgeous arse flexing under my leg and the fall of his hair and the heave of his chest and the gorgeous twist of pleasure on his face.

He’s moving his counter over the last few spaces and taking the game again. I’m fucking done for.

"Baz!"

I explode, quaking, seeing stars, going supernova—the whole fucking thing. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s mind-shattering. I can’t breathe—I can only shiver and buck as my orgasm pulses through me. Baz starts rocking into me again and again. Just when I feel like I need more, he lifts his hip and pulls me flush against him.

Oh, fuck…

He’s so damn beautiful.

Baz’s face is lightly sheened with sweat. His lips are parted on an endless string of thready moans. He’s rutting into me faster now, tighter.

“Yeahhh, yeah, Baz—come on, do it,” I plead, once I’ve got enough wits and breath to manage it. I see a shudder roll through him. “Come for me, Baz.”

That seems to get to him. Next thing I know, Baz’s brow is drawn up like he’s in pain, and then he’s whimpering _“Snow!”_ while pressing the back of his hand to his mouth...and then it hits. His head falls back as he comes with a throaty cry against me. I run my eyes over him greedily, following the long throb of pleasure that racks his body. I watch with hazy fascination as the tremors rock him.

Merlin....

I’m still mindless, sweating and leaking on Baz. All I can hear are my calming breaths and Baz’s heavier ones, as he works his way back down to earth.

It’s unbelievable. It’s fucking terrifying. It’s life-altering. I close my eyes and relish in the moment while I can.

 **_“Clean as a whistle,”_ ** I eventually hear Baz cast, followed by an **_out, out damn spot!_ **. His enunciation is lazy, but it seems to do the trick. Then I feel him moving out from under me, standing up.

I’m not looking forward to this part—the part where he acts like a total prat again. I keep my eyes closed, wanting to enjoy it for just a little bit longer....

“Snow...?” Baz’s voice is soft. My heart squeezes.

“Yeah...?” I sound well wrecked.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just...just need a second.”

“Take your time,” Baz replies.

I don’t know how to deal with Baz Pitch being soft.

Fucked up thing, that. I’m more capable of dealing with him beating me stupid and using me to get off than I am with him being kind. But it’s not like I want him to be a twat, either....

I wonder why.

I wonder what I want.

I wonder what the fuck we’re doing.


	5. Fifth Time

**BAZ**

I have no idea what the fuck we’re doing.

I’m hiding in the en suite while Simon Snow lies on my bed, collecting himself after I just...

I scrub my hands in the sink, even though they’re spelled clean. They’re shaking—all of me is shaking. I’m dazed. Delirious.

I just beat Simon Snow and then rutted against him until I came. He asked me to, no less.

I turn off the tap and grip the sink.

After the last time, I swore to myself I wouldn’t let this happen again. It was absolutely bound to end in physical contact, given how close we got last time.

Yet the second I had the slightest opportunity, I succumbed. I could have tossed him the board and left him to figure things out on his own. But no—I fell victim to my own desires. Again.

I nearly fell victim to a few more. I nearly let him beat me. I wanted to feel his winning cries against my mouth. I wanted to contend so hard that I could taste his sweat. I wanted to press him down into the board while we came.

I might have done it all, had he not been such a filthy cheat. I think it was the only thing keeping me moderately coherent. 

Perhaps I need to let him play up to his full urchin potential—he’s practically the artful dodger, anyway. It might stop me grinding into him at every available opportunity.

I turn the tap back on and splash cold water onto my face.

Most agonisingly of all, I simply want to...to go back out there. Press my fingers into his curls and hold him all night. Have him hold me. Whisper strategy and rules into his ear and hear him sigh.

I hope he’s alright. I was far from gentle with him. He seemed to love every minute of it...

There’s the faint sound of rustling from the room. Snow must finally be relocating to his own bed.

I hide a few minutes longer, then finally brave going back into the room. Snow is indeed on his bed, barely under the sheets, with his back to me. He’s put the game away and straightened my duvet. 

Exams are soon (no time for games lest Bunce steal my top spot), and then the summer holidays. I only have to get through a few more weeks of close proximity. Then I can spend the summer hardening myself to him again. (Not like _that_.)

It’s just the way it has to be.

I turn off the lights with a whispered spell, then I illuminate the tip of my wand with another. I lie in bed and try to study the night away. The whole time, I’m running through all the games I’ve yet to play with him: UNO, Mousetrap, Cluedo, Kerplunk...and as I fantasise, the thick, caramelised scent of Simon Snow wafts off my sheets.

  
  


**SIMON**

So.

The thing is…

Well.

I’m more screwed than I originally thought.

It was my last, groggy thought as I drifted off to sleep last night, and it was my first thought this morning, as I stared out across our beds to watch Baz sleep.

This has nothing to do with playing Baz at games.

Alright, maybe not _nothing_ to do with it—I do really like that part. But, I mean, it’s not my sole motivator.

If it was, then what the hell was last night about? 

That had _way_ more to do with coming than playing.

I tell myself not to think about it.

I tell myself that for the next three days.

Still...my thoughts jump to him constantly. It’s been a long time since those thoughts were _I bet he’s plotting something_. Instead, it’s thoughts like _he hasn’t got enough milk in his tea_ and _I wonder if he likes Monster Munch_ and _he should be here right now, playing me._ I even saved him a fucking Hob Nob (chocolate covered) last Thursday.

Which is…

Well.

I think I...

I fancy Baz Pitch.

So. Yeah. I'm right screwed, aren't I?

I'm not supposed to fancy him. I'm not even supposed to be friendly with him—at least that's what Baz says. 

Anyway. Brothers, friends, rivals—no matter how the fuck you slice it, I'm definitely not supposed to _fancy_ him.

Finding him attractive is one thing. I could live with that. I think anyone would find him attractive. It's bloody unfair, how fit and graceful and powerful he is.

But... _liking_ him? That's not supposed to be our dynamic.

I’ve been telling myself for three days that it's hormonal—I’m projecting feelings onto him that aren’t real because I’m a horny eighth year who just realized fooling around and doing things that are explicitly forbidden with my roommate is a hell of an endorphin rush. (I think Penny would be proud of that assessment.) (Not that I’m about to tell her.) (Sorry, Pen.)

That is, until earlier today, when I was staring at him in class and all I could think about was how bored and dissatisfied he looked. 

All I wanted to do was reach out to him across a board, kiss his hair and tell him it’s his turn. Just for a bit.

Which is…fucking tender, isn’t it?

I want to be tender with Baz. I want that soft voice of his in my ear again. His hand on mine as we play.

He's a villain, but he hasn't done anything all that villainous in months. (If you don’t count the law breaking game play, or the crisp crumbs on the floor.)

And he's an arse, but his snarking is almost nice sometimes—funny. (Which is kind of messed up. But what about this isn’t?)

He's smart and ruthless and so fucking skilled.

So, I'm...

Yeah.

I like Baz. And I've got no idea what to do about it.

  
  


**BAZ**

It appears Snow is back to stalking me.

Usually, if I look up to find Snow staring at me, he’ll scowl menacingly or grunt like a disgusting, sexy pig. These past few days have been different. Whenever I catch Snow’s eye, he treats me to alternative responses that are baffling. (Almost as baffling as the biscuits he leaves for me.)

Seven years of studying Simon Snow has not prepared me for these looks.

Now when I catch him, he chews on his lip. Sometimes, I swear he’s blushing. It’s been ten days since I made him blush for good reason, strewn out and losing on my bed. Ten torturous days of me desperately attempting to ignore him while he taunts me with this clumsy affection.

It’s putting awful ideas into my head. Insipid, hopeful ideas that Simon Snow might be as plagued with thoughts of playing me as I am of him. Compiling lustful lists of games I need to show him, have him touch, let him win.

Snow’s staring at me right now. He’s leaning against a bookcase, munching on a Twix, while he unabashedly surveys me from across the library. I glance up from the table at which I’m studying—he’s just close enough that I can still make out the fading bruise along his cheekbone. (I’m just sick enough to feel a twitch in my pants from the memory that he spelled my box of toys into his face.)

When our eyes meet, Snow stares and pushes at his bottom lip with his tongue. It’s infuriating, how erotic I find it. I curl my lip at him in the type of sneer I haven’t been able to manifest in weeks. Snow isn’t daunted—he has the audacity to grin at me, then gives a jerk of his head in the vague direction of the library doors.

My eyebrow flies up. What in all the circles of hell is he attempting to communicate?

Nasty little gremlin that he is, he actually gives me one last eye-crinkling smirk over his shoulder before disappearing through the doors.

Is...is Simon Snow _beckoning_ me?

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz hates me. I know that.

But he also wants me. Maybe in the same fucked up way I thought I wanted him—as some kind of power play.

Whatever his motivations, it’s pretty clear he likes doing game stuff with me. Me, specifically. Because unless he’s haunting some other bloke’s room when I think he’s off studying or hunting, it doesn’t seem like Baz is getting Operated on by anybody else.

I’d notice, now that I know the signs. If he came back to the room all flushed and weak-kneed and smelling like competition, I’d notice.

Just me, then.

(Which is good. The thought of him climbing ladders with anyone else makes me burn and itch all over.)

The place I want him is the same place he wants to be. It’s as simple as that.

I’ve not got the patience to wait for another “lesson” with Baz. I’ve not got the mind to manipulate him into one, either. I’ve always done best with the direct approach.

Can’t exactly proposition him if he’s never in the room. Can’t do it out in the open where someone could overhear us, either. (Too much potential for getting hauled in front of the Coven.) So...I give Baz my best _“come hither”_ and hope I looked ready for the match, and not stupid.

Maybe it can solve something between us. I don’t expect him to ever start liking me, but it’s better than always fighting.

Merlin. It’s _so_ much better than fighting.

I’m thrumming with nervous energy as I haul myself towards Mummers. I hope he got the hint. I hope he’s not going to stand me up.

How fucking pathetic would it be to be stood up for games night in your own room?

  
  


**BAZ**

I’m going to focus all of my fury and humiliation into erecting an impeccably crafted funeral pyre made of all the games I will never let him play with me. Then I’ll drain him and bridal-carry him into the flames.

It’s the fate he deserves for making me so absolutely idiotic with lust for him that I thought he was—of all things!—suggesting a contest call.

I’m an imbecile.

I waited seven minutes after Snow left the library, then I carried myself to our room with an embarrassing swiftness.

He’s not. Fucking. Here.

I’m truly a pathetic sod.

I collapse face-first onto my bed with a harrumph, because I’m a fool and I revved myself up for this.

Did he not realize what he was communicating? (I’ll pound it into him. In all ways imaginable.)

Was he fucking with me? (I’ll do so much worse than drain him.)

Does he think that I’m some plaything of his? (I am, but he’s not supposed to know that.)

I’ll make him regret it—I’ll make him regret it in all the ways I promised to last time, and more.

Yes. That’s a good plan.

Snow will be back and when he arrives, the Anathema will regrettably prevent me from strangling him. That doesn’t mean I can’t make him choke in other ways.

I’m superior to Snow in almost every way imaginable. If he thinks he can fuck with me, I’ll have to show him precisely how much better I am.

That’ll teach him.

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz is going to kill me.

The Mage called out while I was legging it through the courtyard. He’d just got back from a few days away and wanted us to walk together to his office, catch me up on things before end of term. It was really hard to keep a straight face when he was telling me about his gaming raids in Shropshire. He’s taken a whole Guess Who circle taken down. (The Scrabble ring slipped the net, though.)

He could tell something was up. The longer it went on, the more my magic stank up his office. I told him I was just really focused on revising for exams next week.

The Mage seemed a bit proud of me for that. No need to worry him with what’s actually on my mind.

It’s been too long. I hope Baz is still there—

He is, I realise, as I throw open the door to our room. He is very much still here. He is very much an eyeful.

“In or out,” Baz snaps.

I slam the door shut and lean against it. “You—” My voice cracks, and I wince.

I’m pretty sure Baz is smirking in a way that should be genuinely scary. I can’t tell though, because my eyes are glued to the display before me.

Baz is bare to the waist, trackies slung low on his hips. He’s bent over, on his knees, bracing himself on one arm, with the other reaching towards the small tower of wooden bricks in front of him.

“Jesus Christ, Baz!” I choke out. My voice is strained, and I’m still panting from my run up five flights of stairs.

“Déjà vu, Snow.”

“You—” I try again. I can’t drag my eyes away from Baz’s chest. His completely bare chest. “You got started without me.”

Baz scoffs. His elegant fingers grip the block’s base tighter and give it a long, slow pull, like he’s showing off the full extent of the control he has. He pulls (and pulls) until the lip of the toy’s head makes the tower wobble slightly. It’s painfully, overwhelmingly hot.

Between the breathlessness of getting myself here as fast as possible, and how quickly all my blood’s flowing to my dick, I think I’m going to pass out.

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, Snow,” Baz drawls, his voice thick with pleasure as he drops the block on the floor. “But my world doesn’t revolve around you.” He pushes at another block inch by wooden inch, until it’s fully removed. He makes the most delicious moan as he does it.

As Baz slowly teases the blocks again and again, all I can do is pant and watch. Which is apparently exactly what Baz wants—the moment I gather enough of my wits to take a step forward, Baz clucks his tongue at me.

“Who said you could join me?”

That finally breaks me from my trance enough to gawk at him—at his face, I mean. “What?”

Baz is scowling at me, one eyebrow up, looking daunting as all hell. (Seriously, how can he look so domineering while he’s on all fours?) “I told you,” he says bitingly, “this isn’t about _you._ ” Baz gives the tower a nudge—a block pops out. “You can watch,” he adds, with another fast thrust and moan, “but that’s all.”

I frown and work my fists at my sides. I’m doing my best to keep my eyes on his. _Real_ difficult when he’s putting on a show.

“Baz, in the library...” I take another step, but the vicious narrowing of his glare makes me stop. “I—I was trying to tell you—”

“I know full well what you were hazarding to communicate, Snow.” Baz’s enunciation is sharp. “And I don’t particularly care.”

Fuck. Baz thinks I was messing with him, doesn’t he? He’s pissed off and this is my punishment.

“The Mage called me to his office,” I sputter. “I tried to get away as fast as possible. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Baz hasn’t stopped pushing and pulling the toy in front of him. The shiver of the tower and hums of his pleasure are impossible to tune out. It’s getting harder and harder to not look, but I need to keep my gaze on his. I need him to know.

“Does it look like I waited for you?” Baz widens his knees and rolls his hips in a showy thrust. He gives a long moan, and even knowing that it’s mostly for effect, the sound still makes my cock fill further.

Fucking _hell_. Alright, then. If Baz wants to be stubborn, I can be stubborn right back.

“It looks to me like you got everything set up, so we could jump straight to the good stuff,” I say. I undo the top button on my blazer and let it slip from my shoulders.

“Didn’t you hear me? This is _not_ about you,” he insists.

“Then why,” I say, kicking off my shoes, “are you giving me the best view possible?”

I’m really not as stupid as Baz seems to think. He sneers, but I can see a faint flush rising in his cheeks.

“Because you’re the one who has to wait,” he says slowly. “You’re going to stand there and watch me play Jenga, and you won’t be able to do anything about it.”

I grin at him, sure to keep my eyes steady, even as he tries to make me crumble with his arsenal of thrusts and sounds. “What’s this lesson about, then? Patience?”

Baz smirks—it’s enough to make my balls tighten. I used to think I reacted to him like that because I was scared or angry, but turns out it’s because he’s a chess grand master at turning me on. Who knew.

“Sure, let’s say it’s patience,” he whispers. Baz rocks his hips inches from the tower, each movement making my arousal ratchet up another notch.

“I’ve got shit for patience and shit for brains.” I undo the top button of my shirt and loosen my tie, so I can pull it over my head without having to do battle with a knot. “You said that to me once.” I drop the tie.

Baz tracks my actions with a wild intensity, even as he works his wrist under another block. I ache, knowing that even though I’ve got him where I want him (on the floor, on his knees), he’s still got all the power.

“So I did,” Baz says, all breathy and fucking perfect. “Still, even an idiot like you can mend his ways. Shall we make a grand master of patience out of you, Snow?”

“I think I’d rather fail this lesson.” I undo the next two buttons of my shirt. Baz’s mouth drops open again, and I watch him tongue at his canines. He’s staring at my throat, and that should probably worry me, but my cock says it’s alright. “How about we skip ahead to the next one?”

Baz licks his lips and fixes me with a questioning look. “The _next_ lesson? And what would that be?”

Finally, _finally,_ I can get a good look at Baz’s chest. _Merlin_ , he looks so good. Pale and sweaty from the toil of building his tower. There’s sweat dripping down his stomach, disappearing into his trousers. I gulp and watch his skin as it glistens, the strain of his bicep as he reaches down to the base of the tower and tugs at another block. My mouth’s pooling with saliva.

He really did set me up with the perfect view.

I swallow. “The lesson in how I can get you to come while screaming _Jenga_.”

  
  


**BAZ**

_Great snakes._

As if it weren’t incredible enough that Snow is practically drooling at the sight of me, he’s now luring me into illicit gaming sessions and wants me to scream as he topples my tower.

A shiver wracks me at the sheer prospect. I close my eyes, moaning as I ride it out. It’s humiliating, how his words can move me so close to the edge. I revel in it, all the same.

I must make a splendid sight. I can hear him groaning unsteadily—” _fuck_ , Baz”—as I breathe hard, struggling to gather my dwindling reserves of dignity into some semblance of restraint.

There’s a commotion behind me, which helps distract me from knocking over the tower. I watch Snow as he bumbles about, undoing the last of his buttons, all while refusing to look away from me. He’s clumsy on a good day—the blatant erection he’s sporting isn’t doing him any favours as he bangs into his desk, trying to scrape off his socks.

I lick my lips again. I’m still too close to the edge, so I tease Snow (and myself) by simply squeezing the edges of my chosen block. Snow grunts as I clench, release, clench, release. It feels wonderful, though the majority of my pleasure comes from how Snow is staring at me, like I’m a particularly appetising breakfast offering. 

I shouldn’t be encouraging this. I’m only going to hate myself once the rush of pleasure fades. But I’m weak and he _wants_ me. It doesn’t matter that he hates me, and that this is all a meaningless conquest for him. I’ll take whatever he’ll give me.

Then summer will come and go, and we can eke out our final year at Watford in the usual fashion. (At each other’s throats, rather than at each other’s cocks.) I’ll have these glorious memories of dice and errant knights to carry me though. At the end of it all we’ll duel, and he can rid the world of me once and for all. I’ll kiss him and tell him how I’ve always loved him, and _that_ will be when I get my one tender moment with Simon Snow.

For tonight though, I’ll allow myself this.

“Well then, dearest terror,” I say, shamefully breathless. “Since you’re so outrageously confident, the grading will be particularly harsh this time.”

“Yeah?” Snow gifts me with a glowing grin. “Cool. What, um…” Snow closes the gap between us and drops to his knees. I can’t help but notice how his moles continue ever downwards, across the flat expanse of his stomach and into the waistband of his school trousers. I had taken my shirt off for the sheer fuck of it, but Snow seems to think it’s part of the game. “What should I do?”

Where to start? There are so many nuanced facets to a good game of Jenga, and I want him to yearn for each and every one of them. I’m desperate to get started though, and his mere presence is proving to be quite the distraction. I’m intoxicated by the gleam of sweat already gathering along his neck, the vista of his freckled chest, his stiff, inviting nipples and the bulge in his trousers... _oh, Crowley, yes_. He prods tactlessly at the tower, and I want to devour him.

I need Simon Snow all over my wooden playing pieces in every possible interpretation of the phrase, until the entire world narrows to him and him alone, and I have no choice but to scream _Jenga!_ again and again, because it’s the only word left in my head.

“Baz?” Snow sounds amused, which alerts me to the fact that I’ve been staring at his crotch. (Will the mortification never cease?)

I clear my throat. “Take a block out,” I say. _And let me lick it_ , I don’t say. That would be crossing a line. (And breaking the rules.)

There used to be a very simple, clearly defined line between Snow and I. _Don’t interact unless it benefits you by directly making his life miserable._ Now we’ve gone and complicated things, leaving us with far more complex lines such as: _Don’t do anything beyond basic dice-play, otherwise it’ll become too difficult to claim this is all just some weird game master-apprentice roleplay._

“R-right.” Snow leans forward and, to my shock and delight, tugs a block from the bottom of the tower. “Then what?” he asks, while running his other hand along his waistband. (Does he realise he’s doing that? _Crowley._ )

Simon Snow is kneeling next to me, wearing only his tatty school trousers, asking for instructions on how to build a mind-blowing phallic structure out of compressed wood.

I’m going to regret this, but I don’t care.

“Put it on top,” I rasp, watching the glide of his wrist. “You have to go on top.”

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz is trembling. I can’t tell if he’s cold or scared—or just _that_ excited. Fuck, _I’m_ that excited. I haven’t even touched myself yet and I’m ready to blow.

“And now?” I ask. Ugh, I sound eager, don’t I? Baz would take the piss out of me, if he weren’t that much worse off.

Merlin. I love seeing him like this. Baz’s gaze is unfocused as he assesses the tower, and his answers come so slowly. I can see him through his trackies; he’s dribbling precome through the fabric. (I wonder what it tastes like.) (Like _winning._ Strategy and all that fucking _plotting_.)

“Well,” Baz says slowly, “you’re the smart-arse who thinks he can skip a lesson.” He leans back, hip bones poking above his waistband. “Why don’t you show me just how clever you are?”

 _Fuck_ , yes. I’ve been dying to impress him, draw this thing out further—and that’s as good an invitation as any.

I slide my hand over Baz’s, leading us back to the bottom of the tower. He gasps and turns his face from me, the way he does when it all gets too much. I wish he wouldn’t hide, I wish I could see his face when he—

 _“Crowley,”_ Baz groans, as his fingers close around the edge of a block. Together we tug it out a little, then slide it back in. “ _Yes_ , Snow. That’s it.”

“Mmm,” I agree, letting the block move in, out, in, out. I’ll show him who needs a lesson in patience. “That’s right, yeah? I go, then you go, ‘til one of us knocks it over?”

I keep my fingers pressed over his and together we find a lazy pace. I ease the block out until the edge of it grazes Baz’s palm, just like he first demonstrated, and then I tease it back into the tower. Baz releases these soft, greedy sounds—we’re not building as fast as he’d like. And I’m fine with that, because it’s making him shudder, and then it’s making him _whine_. He could tell me to hurry up, but he doesn’t—he lets me guide his hand completely. Baz is a willing victim in this.

It’s bloody brilliant, making Baz rock the tower over and over. Making him do it at the tempo I’ve set. It’s torture, and he’s letting me do it. It’s all wrong—the wrong pace for him, just _wrong_ in general—so why does it feel like this is the closest we’ve got to doing things _right_?

I want to get even closer.

“It’s not enough, is it?” I ask Baz, while we both ease the block out again. I keep it there, pulling just enough that the edge threatens to break past the entrance—I wonder if that would feel good, or if it would bother him. I watch his muscles twitch as he fights the need to remove the block completely.

“What do you think, Snow?” Baz snarls, panting and trying not to give in. His fingers twitch eagerly beneath mine. He wants to push it back in _so badly_.

“Tell me how to do it for you, Baz.”

I sink the block back into the tower suddenly. It’s much faster than I’ve been giving him so far. Baz arches his back and releases the most lovely sound when I do it, tossing his head back.

“Fuck! You’re... _ah!_ ” Baz whimpers. “You’re supposed to... _fuck_...put it on top!”

I’m still nudging the block, even though it’s in all the way. I’m pushing until the end starts poking through the other side. It makes Baz quiver in desperation. He’s not able to hold back this time, but he can’t do much with my hand still trapping his—Jenga is strictly a one-handed game. His only option is to shove his hips back and forth, growling in frustration. (To me, he sounds _so_ sweetly broken.)

“Don’t be like that,” I say. I lean into Baz and he arches again. I touch the backs of his fingers, and now I’m the one getting impatient. “Teach me, Baz.” I lift his hand, and together we shove that same block in even further. “What should I do?”

Baz is breathing so hard. I can see his chest heaving, hips continuing their small, useless movements. Merlin...he’s so far gone. I worry I might make him come just from this—it would be hot, but I need so much more from him before we get there.

I ease off, dropping his fingers, giving him chance to look at the tower. Baz releases a shuddering sound of relief. He can’t hold himself up any longer—he drops to one elbow and pants against the floor.

I lazily shift a few millimetres of the block in and out and Baz shifts onto both elbows. He’s taking his time, watching as I make his tower sway, back and forth, back and forth. We’re both producing these terribly dirty sounds, and I’m embarrassed by how much I’m loving it.

Baz finally glances over at me—the look in his blown eyes makes my cock jump. He’s sweaty and flushed and so damned intimidating. Fucking _breathtaking_.

He always is. He always was.

Why did it take me _so_ long to notice?

“Slow and methodical,” he says slowly. “Like my demonstration.”

“No way.” I grin, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes. (Fuck. Me.) “There has to be more than that. I want you to be screaming Jenga, remember?”

Baz snarls at me, his teeth flashing menacingly. I’m so fucking hot for him, all my ridiculous brain can manage is _yes, fuck, please bend me over the blocks and bite me_ —which definitely isn’t something I should say.

“Then do it _faster_ ,” he growls.

I gulp and try again. “Baz.” I lean over him as much as I can without needing to brace myself on one arm. (I don’t want to get too close and scare him off.) “I want you to know it’s me, making you feel like this. I want to play so well tonight, you never forget it.”

Baz’s eyes go wide. My face is burning, but I hold his gaze. He breathes through his nose and then, with a whimper, whips his face away from me again. For a split second I’m worried—was that a bad reaction? Judging by the way his hand drops to his crotch, I realise it’s actually a _very good_ reaction.

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon Snow was always going to be the death of me. I simply didn’t stop to consider the precise set of accompanying circumstances.

How am I meant to keep any sort of grip on my mental faculties when he’s so close I can feel the heat peeling off his skin? When he’s saying such wonderfully filthy things? When he’s making a variety of my most lurid gaming fantasies come true, all at once?

_I want to play so well tonight, you never forget it._

Merlin and Morgana...those words rock through my body with every throb of my cock.

_I want that too, Snow. I want you to blow my mind. Take me, claim me. Topple my tower and my defences, all at once. Astound me with your strategy. Bludgeon me with it._

I don’t think I could live with myself if I truly let Simon beat me at Jenga. I’d never recover from it. I’m flying close enough to the sun as it is…

“Baz?” The way he says my name sets me alight.

“I’m thinking,” I say. I’m wrecked already, rocking into my hand.

“Yeah, I got that.” Snow’s grin practically leaps off his face. He brushes his left hand along my hip and arse while his right continues to work the protruding block in a steady rhythm. “Don’t overthink it,” he says. (Simpleton.)

I sigh my pleasure at his touch. His fingers dare to dip below my waistband, caressing the skin he finds there. I shiver at the intimacy.

“I need—” I hesitate, worrying my lip.

“Mmm?” Snow wiggles the block around, nudging it against the walls. My mind goes blank. “You need what?” He sounds so sure of himself—I want to push him over and spit on him. Instead I can barely manage to breathe as he teases the tower, making it wobble with infuriating competency. “Come on,” he purrs. I want that husky voice pressed against my ear. “Tell me how to wreck you, Baz.”

“Y-you’re doing it, you bastard.” I’m aching for him to build the tower higher and shift his hand lower, all at once. Embarrassing sounds slip out of me as he finally teases the block free.

“No.” Snow slides his wandering hand around the back of my trousers. (Loose trackies, to return the agony he’s dealt me over the years.) He strokes my arse, then moves back to where he was before, hassling my waistband. I shudder. “More than this. Let me give you more.” He’s slick with sweat. 

There’s a moment where I clearly envision Snow smearing me with his sweat, running his hands through his drenched hair and then shoving the block back in, all the way. He could use me and the treacherous tower however he wants, both of us his playthings.

It’s an absurd fantasy. Yet despite that, it makes me all the more hungry. For Snow to have _more_ of me...the lines are so blurred. We’ve pushed things so far. I don’t understand how the tower’s still standing.

If this will be the last time I reach the dizzying heights of orgasm in Snow’s presence—if he wants to make me _scream_ —then why not crank things up another notch?

Snow thrusts his hand into the tower, wrenching a long groan from me. The block pops free and tumbles out the other side. “A-alright, alright—” I squirm against his assault. “Wait.”

He obediently stills his questing hand, though his other slides down, rubbing at me. (I can’t _believe_ he’s touching me _there_.) Snow swipes his thumb along the tower’s length in tantalising patterns. “Tell me what to do,” he says, so fucking charming. I want to cry, I want to come, I want to make him _lose_.

I shift my weight back onto my knees, then give Snow a solid nudge with my other leg. “Move,” I grunt, and after some of his clumsy bumbling (and him nearly pulling my cock off in the confusion), we finally manage to get my legs and hips on the inside, with him behind me, bracketing me.

He gulps. “Now what?”

I reach my free hand down between my legs. I give Snow a heated look over my shoulder as I cup myself through my trousers. “Put your hand here,” I tell him, squeezing at his fingers on me, on the other side of the fabric. His gaze snaps down, and I luxuriate in the feeling of his eyes on me. He’s red from his ears, all the way down his gleaming chest.

“The...block?” he chokes out.

“No. That’s staying exactly where it is.” I squeeze again, and I fancy I can _hear_ the throb of Snow’s cock against my arse. I reach forward and expertly pluck another block from near the bottom of the tower. “Put it in the hole you made.”

“You...you want me to...p-put—” Snow swallows, then tries again. “Put your block in my hole.”

“Yes,” I hiss. His reaction is only making my yearning worse. I love seeing him so undone by the mere prospect of my chosen block filling his reckless hole. “You’re going to complete my tower, Snow. What better way to assure I _never forget_ your playing tonight? Your role in what must assuredly be the best orgasm of my life?”

Snow huffs and grunts—it’s obvious how much the thought turns him on. He’s an animal, eager to mark what’s his.

“You asked for it,” he threatens. “And you _will_ say Jenga.”

I roll my hips forward, rutting against his hand. (So _hot_ , all of him, all of the time.) _“Make me.”_

  
  


**SIMON**

I’d worry I’m about to go off, if we hadn’t already fooled around with each other a few times. (I’m still a bit worried.) (I feel pretty on edge, with my hand in Baz’s pants.)

He’s so fucking hot. I’m furious. (With him, the game, myself.) Why did I only notice this _now_ , when there’s so little time left before summer? We could have been doing this for _years_.

_Don’t think about that right now. Keep your head in the game._

That’s easier said than done, with Baz underneath my hands, hard and flushed and trembling and _wanting_ —wanting _me_ —

I grab hold of a block and aim with my wrist—I’m so stupidly aroused, it’s an effort not to come just from that. I moan and try to steady himself, squeezing his hips between my knees.

“Don’t you dare come before me,” Baz rumbles.

I set my jaw and clamp my eyes shut, willing an inch of focus into myself.

 _Don’t think about what he just said. Think about_ — _uh—about goats! Merwolves playing Twister. Goblins. Goblins playing cards. That’s a game. Poker. Strip poker. Fuck, no, don’t think about that!_

Baz is bullying me to the brink. He knows I’m struggling, yet he rocks back against me anyway, then leans forward, grinding into my hand. The sneaky bastard somehow manages to get his liberated block on top of the leaning tower, and I yell out when the tip of the wood makes contact. Baz _purrs_ and rubs against me. He’s warm and slick and a _bully_.

“ _Baz_ ,” I growl. I squeeze a block so tight it splinters, which thankfully keeps me from coming all over my school-issued trousers.

 _Oh God. Baz is going to let me_ —

My hips jerk on their own. I shove myself against Baz’s back, unable to control myself. He gasps and squirms, guiding my hand to the very top. (Of the tower or his cock? I’ve got no fucking clue which hand’s doing what anymore.)

“Yes…!” Baz lets his head drop down, as the tower somehow remains standing. It’s proper precarious now, as am I as I try to find some kind of rhythm with my occupied hand. All I can feel is the wet heat of him, the harshness of his breath against my neck.

“Oh fuck—fuck, Baz…”

It’s good. I let go of a block long enough to caress the base of the tower, instead. I give another thrust of my hips while my fingers dig into the gap I’ve made. He hisses beautifully.

Baz is making all sorts of delicious sounds, muttering _Jenga, Jenga, Jenga_ over and over. I’m not sure how it can feel good for him (it’s a clumsy handjob, if anything), but he seems really into it. Which honestly just makes it even hotter.

My other hand’s still stroking the tower. Up and down, up and down. I don’t know how to fuck Baz up with it and move my hand at the same time. I can’t cope with that level of coordination right now. The white-hot pleasure of Baz’s cock in my hand is melting my brain.

 _This is how he wins_ , I think. _This is how he beats me._

Each flick of my wrist makes my thumb bump into the tower, rocking it slightly. I cautiously steady it, causing a block to slide out part way as my hand pulls back. And when I bury it in its hole once more, Baz keens out a low sound of approval.

“Good?” I ask him.

“G-good,” he croaks. (Merlin, that _voice_.) “So— _ah,_ fuck, Snow. Yes. Good, _mmm_ , _so good_.”

I’m sweating and I’m probably holding on too tight and I’m so fucking entranced by the sight of us, swaying in time with the wobbling tower. It’s going over any minute now. My cock’s hard against his back, which is probably a bit hotter of a thought than it should be. He’s groaning the names of games I’ve never heard of, and I want him to always be this shameless for me. ( _Only_ for me.) He shouldn’t hide anything from me ever again.

“Oh, Baz…” I bend over him to get a better grip on my next block. Baz squeezes his legs and whines, which I’m pretty sure is a sign of appreciation for my insane Jenga skills. I know _I’m_ grateful—this is absolutely incredible.

 _“Snow,”_ Baz whimpers.

He’s driving me mad. I can’t resist him. I need to _hold_ him.

I slide my arm around his waist and press my hand against his stomach. He gasps—his playing hand lets go of the block he was caressing, catching my wrist. I think he’s going to push me off, so I grunt a complaint. Instead, he digs his nails in and traps me there.

I curl over Baz’s body, my hips jarring as I press flat against his back.

Baz yelps—it’s a high, pained sound. It’s so startling, and I’m so stupid with lust, I’m not even sure what’s happened. Baz’s reflexes are lightning fast—he quickly darts forward to steady the tower and stop it from collapsing.

Everything stops. We stare at each other, frozen and panting, as Baz keeps his masterpiece in place.

He looks terrified.

(I didn’t mean to scare him.)

Baz’s eyes flick down to my chest, then away, off somewhere else.

“What’s wrong?”

I look down at myself, and then feel like a right tosser.

My cross.

“ _Fuck._ ” I scrabble at the clasp. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” I splutter, thinking of my bare chest pressed against his back. “I’m sorry.”

“It—” Baz clears his throat and turns back to me, dipping his head. “It just—poked me. Surprised me. You needn’t employ such tactics to beat me at _Jenga_ , Snow.”

“Right.” My voice is tight. I feel like such a twat.

(I didn’t mean to _hurt_ him.)

I growl at the bloody clasp that’s hanging on for dear life. I finally yank the thing off me, snapping the chain and tossing it across the room. I watch Baz relax beside me.

“Fuck, sorry,” I say again.

Cautiously, I place a hand on the small of his back. He lets out a shaky breath.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Baz snaps. Too fast. Too cold.

“Are you really?”

“ _Yes.”_ Then, after a moment: “Keep going.” He doesn’t _sound_ like he wants to keep going. He sounds upset. _(I didn’t mean to scare him. I’d never mean to hurt him.)_

“You can tell if me you’re—”

“ _Shut. Up.”_

“Excuse me for caring,” I growl.

“I’d hate to think you’re growing soft for me, Snow,” Baz snarls, flicking his eyes down at my trousers. Why does he always go for the lowest possible blow? (Literally, in this case.)

I try to push down the hurt.

I _am_ soft for Baz, aren’t I? For all sorts of reasons.

And he’s...not.

I knew that. I’ve always known that’s the case. Baz Pitch hates me. That’s how things _are_ with us.

But it still hurts.

“Snow,” he insists, backing up against me.

“Right.”

I _have_ gone a bit soft for him, now. 

Baz doesn’t want me to be soft.

I take Baz’s hip in one hand and try to find a rhythm again.

If this is all of Baz I’ll ever get, then I might as well take what he’s giving me. Even if it won’t be enough, at least it’s _something_.

I slowly rock my hips and fold over Baz, until my chest touches his back again. He tenses, but this time I know it’s not because of the cross. (I think it’s because the tower is teetering on the brink.) ( _Don’t think about him screaming out Jenga and your name, over and over again like it’s his fucking anthem_ —) 

“There we go,” Baz sighs. “Good, Snow.”

I can feel him reach a hand towards the tower again. This time, he doesn’t hold himself away from me. Baz gently taps on the block as I rock into him so tightly that my cock slides up the cleft of his fucking perfectly perfect arse. Which makes Baz release these stuttering sounds.

“Oh—” I grunt. “Oh, fuck, yeah...Baz, my turn.”

I start to skim the block out—it’s a risky one but if I get it, the tower will balance solidly.

“Mmm...that’s good, that’s good, don’t stop, Snow, you’re doing so well—”

I choke out a wild sound at Baz Pitch telling me I’m good at something. (Mind you, I dunno if he’s talking about the not-so-dry humping or the Jenga.)

I speed up without meaning to—Baz mewls and writhes and doesn’t seem the least bit displeased.

I’m not doing much more than simply jostling the block each time, which apparently pleases him just fine—he’s writhing into my hand and cock while gasping out a string of _“yes, yes, yes—!”_

I fold over Baz all the way, pressing flat to his back as I pull the block all the way out. It feels so good—it feels _right_. It feels like this is where I should be—where we both should be. Right here, where he’s mine, where he’s safe, where we’re not hurting each other or anyone else. I drop the block on top of the tower. 

He smells amazing, even like this, a little sweaty. (I’m a _lot_ sweaty and probably don’t smell very good at all.) He has a thicker scent than usual, more woodsy than citrus. I want to breathe him in, get drunk off him. I _am_ drunk off him.

I tuck my neck down to rest my forehead between his shoulder blades. Baz gasps and shifts under me—I can feel a shiver run through him. I want him to turn and kiss me but instead he takes his turn with the game. (Of course he does.) We don’t kiss. 

Baz releases his block. It’s weird and exciting. I nudge my hips flat to his arse and pant noisily into his back as we simply rock together like that, hardly separating, impossibly close. Baz is making these soft, high-pitched sounds with each shift of wood on wood.

I’ve smeared precome all over my pants and trousers, all over Baz, making me crazy. His body is so receptive. It’s right, it’s so fucking _right_.

  
  


**BAZ**

“You play so well,” Snow blurts. “Oh, Baz—it’s perfect. You’re perfect. We’re perfect like this.”

“Fuck, Snow.” I’m gasping as tears spring to my eyes. Snow curls over me more and I, in all my foolish desperation, crane back to meet him. 

“Yes, oh Merlin, Snow, yes...”

Snow nudges his nose into the crook of my neck, making me whimper with the intimacy of it. His breaths are coming loud and hot, ruffling my hair, rushing over my skin. I have goosebumps. I’m sparking inside, excruciatingly sensitive to his proximity. It feels like at any moment one of those heavy breaths of his could come out as fire—Crowley, I welcome it.

Burn me up, Simon Snow.

“Baz,” he moans. His voice is so close to my ear, buttery and wavering.

“ _Please_ ,” I beg. Something, anything—just _more._ I want him to envelop me, consume me the way I’m so desperate to consume him.

Snow growls and shoves at me more urgently, pushing me down. Blocks go flying and I have never cared less about either the mess or the unruly destruction of a game. 

“Yeah, Baz— Fuck, that’s it, that’s it.” It feels like he’s trying to fuse us. 

It’s still not enough.

“Please, please—” I clutch at his wrist again, holding him to me.

“Anything,” he says. “Whatever you want—I’ll do it.”

A burst of pleasure rushes through me at his words. I back him off so I can pull him against me properly, face to face. I wrap my legs around his waist and squeeze my thighs, which makes him groan and falter. I can feel the frenzied pulse in his cock—he’s devastatingly close. I am too, even with the blocks pressing into my back, the ruin of competition all around us.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it for me.”

 _“Jenga,”_ I moan senselessly.

I’m voracious, _starving_ for more—whatever he’ll give me, while I can still get it.

He’s over me and on me and in me, so close and hot I can taste him on the back of my tongue, like thick, syrupy caramel. He’s everything.

He’s the sun, he’s heat, he’s fire, he’s here, he’s mine, he’s the _sun_ —and I’m crashing into him.

  
  


**SIMON**

Touching Baz like this feels like the last puzzle piece slotting into place. Which is not something I ever thought I’d think about while grinding on a board game, but there you go.

I think he’s crying, and I start to worry maybe it’s too much—maybe I’m hurting him again somehow. But then Baz is doing the one thing I set out to make him do: he’s screaming a combination of my name and the name of all the games we’ve played. And it’s not really my name—I mean, it is, but it’s not the name he usually calls me.

It’s more than I dared hope for. It’s too good to be true.

Then he does it again, and I know I didn’t hallucinate it.

_“Simon!”_

My heart feels like it’s going to burst. All of me does, really. I whimper and shove my face into his shoulder.

Baz completely falls apart in my arms. I can feel every pulse as his orgasm tears through him. He’s coming and coming with these harsh, full-bodied shudders. I’m so overwhelmed.

  
  


**BAZ**

I love you, I love you, I love you—

  
  


**SIMON**

“A little more,” I moan into his heaving shoulder. “Just a little more, baby.”

I want to ask if he’s okay, but I can’t. Everything’s narrowing into that tight, burning moment where pleasure rockets to its peak—

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon Snow’s orgasms are exactly the West End productions you would expect of a man who makes a meal out of the simple acts of swallowing or shrugging.

He curses and bucks and squeezes too tight. He comes with such glorious abandon. It’s like watching him win. It’s like being beaten in the most beautiful way.

Truly, I thought I could handle letting Simon play me—breaking the rules, pushing the boundaries. I thought I was strong enough.

I was wrong.

Here I was, deluding myself into thinking I could make Snow lose for me, when in actuality it’s always been the other way around. _I’ve_ always been at _his_ mercy. I was always going to come out of this the loser.

I’ve never felt so stupid and disgusting.

“Oh, um...” Snow withdraws his hands from me. “Baz—”

“Get off, Snow.” I press my face against a corner of the duvet hanging off my bed, in the hopes it might muffle how awful I sound.

“Are you alright?”

Curse him.

“Get off me.”

Snow scrambles to one side, all clumsy bluster. I roll the other way.

“Baz?” he tries again, because of course he does. “Are you okay?”

I push my weary body off the blocks. “I’m fine.”

“You’re—”

“Fuck off.” I pluck up my wand and drag the blocks together into a small pile. 

“Baz, hey...” Snow is up, trying to help.

“Don’t,” I hiss, whipping a block out of his hands. I pin him with what I hope is a truly venomous gaze. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch my game.”

“S-sorry, I—”

“In fact,” I spit, “don’t ever touch me again.”

“I don’t understand—”

I bark out a humourless laugh. “That’s a given. Let me make it perfectly clear for you, Snow. This,”—I make an overly dramatic flourish with the block still in my grasp, gesturing at the entire scene of debauchery that played out between us—“is over. Do not. _Ever._ Touch me. Again.”

There’s a whole variety of emotions that flit across Snow’s face.

“Please don’t leave.”

He whispers it, like he’s afraid to spook me. Whatever the reason for it, the vulnerability in his voice makes me falter.

“I won’t touch you,” he promises. “Just...please don’t leave.”

There’s no way I can sleep in this room while he speaks to me in that voice.

I open the door.

“Baz, wait. I don’t know what I did, but—”

The door falls shut behind me, but I can unfortunately still hear Snow’s _“I’m sorry”_ as I descend the stairs of the tower.

I swear to magic, if he dares say that to me again, I’ll spell him mute.


	6. Endgame

**SIMON**

The fucker spelled me mute.

I absolutely _hate_ **_cat got your tongue_** , and Baz knows that.

I hadn’t seen him all weekend. Which was fine.

I hadn’t seen him at meals all weekend, either. Not even at breakfast this morning before class. I started to worry whether he’d even show up, which was stupid. Of course Basilton Grimm-Pitch wouldn’t skip class in order to avoid me. I don’t think he’s ever missed a day of school, no matter the circumstances.

He was there. He wouldn’t look at me. Which was fine. I’m used to him icing me out. It’s just...usually he’ll still spare a glance my way at some point. A sneer, an arched eyebrow. _Something._

I’d take an insult. I’d take a threat. Hell, I’d take a curse.

By the end of the day my magic was stinking up the classroom so bad, the teacher kicked me out. Which was fine. It meant I could wait in the hall outside Baz’s last class.

I guess he could smell me there. (Not surprising.) He took his sweet time leaving, letting all of the other students head out first, then he just walked right past me. I almost reached out to grab him. 

“Baz, come on! _Please.”_

He wouldn’t stop.

“Can we—can we talk? For just a second?”

And that’s when the fucker pulled the wand from up his sleeve and spelled me mute.

That spell never lasts long, thank magic. I still hate it. **_Cat got your tongue_ **makes your mouth feel sluggish and overly full, like you’re choking on yourself. (I’d rather be choking on him and his endless rules.) It’s bloody awful.

I follow Baz back to our room, but I can’t do anything. Unable to touch him or speak to him, what options do I have left?

I try scrawling _can we play?_ next to a noughts and crosses grid in my notebook, but he won’t look up from his desk. He’s going over an essay that’s not due until the end of the week, totally focused. I toss a pen near his head to startle him. He catches it in mid-air, then starts writing with it. (Dramatic tosser.)

He finishes soon enough. I’m sat on my bed, feeling like shit, trying to get him to LOOK AT ME. He doesn’t. 

Then that’s it. He’s gone. 

  
  


**BAZ**

I can't even bring myself to sleep in our room. I can't be kept up all night by Snow’s moonlit form and my foolish yearnings to crawl into his bed. Even more pressing, I can't bear to hear any further attempts by him to talk. Or—magic forbid—play.

I do have to be in our room every now and then. I've gone eight years at this school not using the communal showers, and I'm _not_ about to start now. I also need to procure clean clothes and switch out my books. I refuse to let our disastrous escapades interfere with my hygiene or my marks. I don’t dare touch the box in my wardrobe, even though I’m itching for it.

I try to only go back when I think Snow won't be there. It doesn't always pan out.

The first time we ran into each other, he went right to graceless attempts at communicating, which I hastily shut down with another **_cat got your tongue_**.

The second time I came prepared, spelling him silent before I had even finished closing the door behind me.

The third time, Snow bumbled in while I was there. He had precisely enough time to sputter out a _"I swear I won't say anything,"_ before I could get the spell off. "Obviously not," I snarled at him. It was the most I had said to him since...well. Since.

The fourth time, Snow made a dramatic show of clamping his mouth shut (a heroic feat) (mouth-breather) and holding his hands up innocently. I scowled at him...and decided to take pity. (He really hates that spell.) Then I saw a piece of paper on my desk, folded in half and labelled _Baz_ in Snow's chicken-scratch hand. I plucked it up, dropped it in the bin, and then wordlessly tossed a flame at it for good measure. _"You miserable prick!"_ Snow growled, delivering my bed a solid kick. I retrieved the book I came for and made for the door, sure to spell him mute again as I left, just to be spiteful.

  
  


**SIMON**

I'm real fucking sick of Baz casting that bloody spell on me. I want to tackle him in the courtyard and let my fists do the talking.

That won't get us anywhere. (Or maybe it would?) (Fucked if I know.)

I'm doing my best to focus on my exams, and I don't dare distract Baz from his. If I did something to mess up his marks he’d never forgive me.

It already seems like he’ll never forgive me. Not that I even know what I did. I’ve been mulling it over for two weeks.

Can’t touch him, can’t talk to him. My only option is giving him something he can’t resist. 

I go up to the Mage's office shortly after he leaves. I fill my bag with contraband. It’s the only language Baz understands...it’s the only way to get through to him.

I place it on his desk, wrapped in brown paper in case anyone catches sight of it.

I go to tea (Baz isn’t there), and the library (Baz _is_ there), and then dinner (not there again).

I’m a bit nervous about what response my parcel is going to get. Not really sure what to expect. I run the possibilities through my head as I make my way up Mummers. Least likely scenario—he’ll be waiting there for me and we can actually talk. Most likely—he’s spelled my bed full of crisp crumbs, or something nefariously shitty like that.

I take a deep breath before pushing open the door. I’m ready to face whatever I find.

Baz isn't here.

On my desk, propped up against the travel Ludo I stole for him, is a letter. Thick creme paper, crisply folded (in thirds) (wanker), with _Snow_ swirled in walnut ink.

I open it. Baz's flawless handwriting stares back at me, all elegant slants and loops. His penmanship looks exactly the way his voice sounds.

_Keep your amateur games to yourself._

Alright, so the note didn't have the effect I wanted. It's still the closest I've come to getting his attention. I can't give up now.

I think Baz _likes_ me. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Actually, no—Baz Pitch liking me doesn’t make sense at all. But it’s the only thing that seems right.

(I don’t _think_ that’s wishful thinking?)

Baz liked what we were doing—I’m confident of that. He had so many opportunities to shut me down or turn against me or hurt me, none of which he took. He never took anything at all. He gave and gave. And I gave it right back, and he liked it.

Which means something scared him. Scared him so bad, he’s sacrificing sleep and meals—during exams, no less—just so that he doesn’t have to see me.

I’ve made a list of what would scare him that bad:

**No. 1—Game stuff**

He’s worried that I’m going to grass him up to the Mage. That I’m going to turn snitch or that I might even be gaming undercover for the Mage. 

**No. 2—His feelings**

Baz is proud. _Too_ fucking proud. After years of torturing me, it’s not exactly easy to suddenly do an about-turn, is it? He’d rather go on acting like he hates me than admit he’s developed a crush.

I can’t blame him. I’m finding it rather hard to believe myself—the fact that I could develop a _crush_ on _Baz_. Worse—the fact that I’ve been a bit mad for him for a while, really. Been too thick to realize. Won’t Baz have a good laugh about that!

Maybe that’s what he needs? I could confess the whole thing, let him crow. And then... _maybe_...he could realize I’m leaving him the space to do it, too. That it’ll be okay.

Yeah.

I think I’ll do that.

  
  


**BAZ**

One last exam, and then I’ll be done. Done with eighth year, done with Snow’s unrepentant moping, done with being afraid of my own room.

Home will be fine. I’ll find a rhythm easily enough. There, the only time I’ll have to think about Snow is when my father and Fiona discuss elaborate plans to rid the world of him at the dinner table. The way he’s been under my skin lately, I’m half-tempted to join in on the next family plotting session.

Snow may have the self-control to avoid a public confrontation, but he has not ceased in his stalking entirely.

We’re in Elocution class, taking our final test of the year. When Snow is called to the front of class for his oral demonstration, he’s impertinent enough to brush against my arm as he passes, dropping a piece of paper into my lap.

I only look at the note when it’s safe to do so.

_I miss you._

That’s it.

They’re not _the_ three words, but even so, my heart’s in my stomach and my stomach is somewhere in the vicinity of my ankles.

How _dare_ he plague me this way, in the middle of a test!

Alright, _yes,_ I’ve long since finished both parts of the exam. But _he_ doesn’t know that.

I’m furious. And...well.

What?

Excited? Hopeful? Terrified?

I glance down at the note again whilst he’s talking with the teacher. His handwriting is appalling, but there’s no mistaking what he’s scrawled.

He _misses_ me.

Does he truly mean that, or is he just thinking about cocks and the associated friction?

Snow slumps back into his seat, looking sheepish. I spend the remaining fifteen minutes of class staring a hole through my test paper, thinking about those three words.

_I miss you._

I should laugh. I should turn in my seat and spit in his face. Make him feel a fraction of the shame I’ve been burdened with, these past few years.

What if he means it? (What if he doesn’t?)

Either way, I want to smash his face in. During an _exam_ , Snow, _really?_

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz doesn’t seem _too_ pissed off about the note. We hand in our tests, and I know I’m being really obvious about staring at him, trying to catch his eye, but I can’t help it. When he finally looks at me he jerks his head in the direction of the door.

I don’t have time to panic—he’s walking away, disappearing into the corridor. _Shit!_ I rush after him, hoping I haven’t already lost him in the stream of students.

Baz is fucking tall, right, and I could him pick out of a crowd without a second’s hesitation, so it’s not hard to spot him in the courtyard. I have to elbow past a few ankle-biters, then I finally catch up with him on the edge of the Wavering Wood.

“Baz?”

“Here,” he says, and—wait, what the fuck, how’d he get behind me so fast?

He could’ve been cheating at our game sessions all along, with _that_ kind of speed.

I’m almost touched that he played fair.

“Hey,” I grunt, flinching back. “Watch it. _You_ lured _me_ out here.”

Baz sneers. “Shut up, you fool.”

He points his wand in my face. I’m bracing myself for another fucking cat spell.

“Aren’t we here to talk?”

“Yes,” he snaps, and I can’t help but grin. “Though _I_ will be doing the talking, Snow.”

“Did you read my note?"

“What part of _shut up_ don’t you understand?”

I don’t know what it says about me exactly, but I’m excited that Baz just shoved me up against a tree. Fucking hell, I’m into _this_.

“Baz, listen—”

“ **_Cat got your tongue!_ **

_For fuck’s sake!_ I punch the tree, which doesn’t help at all. The bloody _tosser!_ Alright, fine, I should’ve seen it coming. But _still._

“ _You_ listen to _me,_ ” he hisses. He looms over me, an inch away. “ _Stop_ following me, _stop_ staring at me, and _stop_ stealing games for me!” There’s something in his voice. (I don’t think it’s anger.)

I lift my hand but he snatches my wrist before I can touch him.

“ _And don’t fucking touch me._ ”

He might be stronger and faster, but I’m definitely more stubborn. I snatch my arm back and—ignoring the way his eyes say _death, death to the infidel!_ —I take _his_ hand and press it to my cheek. I can’t speak, but I can mouth at him.

“Then _you_ touch _me._ ”

I don’t want him to feel trapped. If he really wants to leave things like this, I’ll let him. 

But he touches my face, and I sigh into it. His fingers are cool, even today, in the sunshine. It feels good...and it feels even better when he strokes along my jaw. I let go of his hand.

All I’m aware of is the breeze and the birdsong and his touch and us, standing here, breathing. Not fighting. (Not talking either, mind, so it’s not exactly ideal—but it’s something.)

I have a clear vision of what it would be like if we both stopped being stubborn pricks, and one of us leaned into the other and—

And, well.

We _kissed._

I don’t think Baz is sharing in the same soft sort of fantasies. (He looks confused, to be honest.) I turn my lips into his hand and give his thumb a barely-there kiss.

Baz gasps and brushes his thumb along my bottom lip. It’s fucking electrifying. I kiss against him again. He prods my lips, and I encourage him with small, soft kisses. I push my tongue out and lick the tips of his fingers.

And that’s how I end up with my head against a tree, letting Baz stroke my lips and tongue with his fingers.

It’s invasive. Intimate. Fucking _hot._

I drag my teeth along his fingertip. He holds my jaw, eyes fogged with uncertainty as he studies he. I thought it was only my cock that knocked Baz sideways like this (that and a roll of double sixes, which is enough to get any man primed and ready to go), but apparently I can stun him with all manner of things.

I need to be bolder. I don’t want this to stop.

I dip my mouth over his thumb and draw it into my mouth. Then, I suck.

Baz’s eyebrow shoots up. I know that look. It’s the one gave me before he attacked my rook, the first time we played together. I gasp—Baz presses closer, pushing his thumb into my mouth.

He plunges in a second time, then a third. I groan and let my eyes fall shut. As usual I haven’t got a clue what we’re doing, so I’m not going to waste time wondering why I’m so turned on by this. I just lean back and enjoy.

“Here,” Baz says, shoving his unoccupied hand into his pocket. “Here. This. Please, Snow.”

I let his thumb fall out of my mouth, and before I even have time to think about how batshit crazy it is, I’m pushing forward to kiss what he’s holding in his trembling hand.

A pair of dice, turned to two sixes.

Fuck. Me.

I’m about to see if I can roll a pair of fours with my tongue when there’s a crack of twigs in the woods somewhere, and whatever weird spell we’re under breaks. Baz jumps back, shoving the dice into his pocket.

I still can’t speak. Merlin, this is annoying.

“I…” Baz stumbles. He looks so shaken. “I have...I should go.”

I reach out to him, but he’s already running off towards the school.

All I can do is wait for my voice to come back. When it does, I summon my sword and hack at weeds until my frustration is gone. It’s round about the time I’m knee-deep in chopped grass that I notice something at the foot of the tree.

It’s the note I gave to Baz in class, earlier.

I smooth the paper out in my hands and turn it over, thinking about his dice in my mouth.

My heart jumps into my throat. (My cock gives a presumptive twitch, too, which is typical.)

Baz has written something: two words to accompany my three scruffier ones.

 _Upstairs, Snow_.

Well, you don’t have to bloody well tell _me_ twice.

  
  


**BAZ**

I have to assume Snow will follow me. Surely he’s not _that_ dim?

Still…it’s been a while since the woods and the note. What if he isn’t game, after all?

Exams are done. My mind has space to breathe and think.

Perhaps he’ll come upstairs. Perhaps we’ll talk.

And after that, well…

Perhaps we can play.

His note is still running laps inside my head...I can’t help but be wary of all this. It’s far too fortuitous. How could Simon Snow _miss_ me? It’s absurd, and I can’t allow myself even a sliver of false hope. It will only hurt so much worse when this all falls apart.

Surely he didn’t mean it the way I want him to—the way I _need_ him to.

He misses getting off together. He misses the games.

But...what if…?

I’ll need to be firm with him. I’m not strong enough to continue being mere players-with-benefits. And the concept of friends-with-benefits is even more frightening.

I can’t tell him how I really feel unless I’m certain he wants me, too. _Truly_ wants me, for who I am. (And not just my brilliant strategies.)

And then...should my dreams become reality?

I don’t know.

Would I even be able to accept it?

There’s no time to contemplate things further. I can smell Snow as he comes bumbling up the stairs, and then, a few seconds later, tumbling through our bedroom door.

“I won’t bother you,” he says quickly, gently, hands shielding himself from the spell he’s sure I’ll throw at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Came to say I’ll pack up and kip on the landing, if you want. If you need the space.”

I swallow. “Again, pray tell, _excuse me_?”

Snow takes two steps forward, then seems to think better of it, and pauses. “I just—I want to talk, Baz. But I won’t bother you, if that’s not what you want.”

I sag against the edge of my bed. “ _I_ called _you_ up here by way of a note—which is horribly unoriginal and _twee,_ by the way—and you think I don’t wish to talk?”

“Well, judging by how our recent “conversations” have gone, I’d say I’ve got a right to be a bit confused. Fucking mixed signals on my end, Baz, I’m telling you.”

I sneer. “Talk then, Snow. Spill your heart out to me. Get it all out of your system.”

He takes a few more steps, his mouth hanging open. “I’m...I’m just curious, Baz, and we get somewhere but then you pull back, and...then I’m _more_ curious. Baz, I just—I just want to know more about you.”

“Too bad. I’ve taught you all I can.”

Snow grunts and tugs at his curls. “I’m not talking about games. Look, just—answer something for me?

“And what’s that?”

“You keep silencing me. What are you so afraid of hearing?”

I stare at him and set my jaw. Our latest game appears to be a staring contest. (I win.)

“I like you, Baz.”

The words fall out of him in a rush, like he’s been holding them back since he entered the room. It’s so sudden and absurd, I’m not sure I didn’t imagine it.

“Baz,” Snow presses, moving towards me. “Did you hear me? I like you.”

“I heard you.”

“And…?”

He sounds tentative. Unsure. I can’t help but scowl.

“You just want to play games and get off.”

“What? _No_ ,” Snow groans. “Alright, yeah, that’s nice. I like that. I like doing that _with you_. If I just wanted to play games, though, I could raid the Mage’s cupboard and pick any opponent.”

“How confident we are.”

“I don’t mean it like that. I’m saying, out of everyone in our year, there’s not a single person I’d want to play board games and get off with, apart from you. I want to touch _you_ , Baz. Not just your arse, or your...well, look, I want to touch you everywhere, alright? Your hands, hair, and...and I don’t just want it to be _touching_ , I want…” He struggles for words. It’s a pitiful sight. “I want _all_ of you. As much as possible. And I think the feeling’s mutual.”

I swallow, struggling to maintain eye contact. (Crowley, he’s intense when he’s this worked up.) “You don’t know the first thing about my feelings.”

He shrugs. “Well, you won’t talk to me.” I sneer, he growls, it’s the usual fiasco. “Look, I’ve thought about this. A lot.”

“How painful for you,” I drawl.

Snow ignores me and ploughs on _,_ stepping closer and reaching for me. “ _I like you._ Do I need to fucking say it in Ancient Greek, or something?”

  
  


**SIMON**

I don’t know how to get it though Baz’s thick head.

“School’s over,” Baz is saying, stepping back from me. “You’ll spend the summer with Wellbelove and drown yourself in heterosexual bliss once more. You’ll forget all about our chess match. Snakes and ladders will simply be two unrelated nouns to you, Snow, and not something we shared so intimately.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going to Agatha’s for the summer, and...I never felt for her the way I feel for you.”

He closes his eyes like he’s hiding from me. “The Mage, then. The Mage and his anti-Old Family dinner parties.”

“Wrong again.” I rake my hands through my hair. “I don’t give a toss what he says about the Old Families. Stop mucking about, Baz—I _like_ you. Do you want me to draw you a diagram?”

Baz scoffs, then gives me this look. This tight, hopeful look.

I’m getting to him.

“And what,” he says softly, “would that diagram look like, Snow?”

“It’d look like,” I say, dropping my voice, “like me spending the summer with _you_.” I want to look at him, but his lips are parted and it’s killing me. “Like us. Together. Kissing. Playing games all summer, or something.”

I’m close enough to feel the shiver as it steals over him.

“You think we can ignore our past lifetime of hostilities and, what? Be happy gaming boyfriends?”

I wet my lips. “Yeah. I think we can.”

Baz lifts his chin—my breath catches at the way he’s watching me, eyes hooded, practically smouldering.

“I can’t fathom how we’d manage that.” He’s using that slow, honeyed voice that makes me hot all over. “You’ll have to _teach_ me.”

I gulp. “Term’s over.”

Baz snarls, and at first I think he mistook the teasing for something else, but then his hands are on my shoulders and he’s shoving me, pinning me against the nearest wall. His lips hover next to my ear. “Good thing we’ve got the summer, then.” And I’m so shocked and grateful that I _growl_ against him.

“Summer school? _You?_ ”

He smirks. “I take my studies very seriously, Snow.”

His fingers are pinching into my arms, but we’re not touching anywhere else. (Yet.) There’s only an inch between us and the space feels massive. My magic is thick, trying to fill the air between us so that we can finally _touch_ —

“I’ll teach you all I can.” I try to make my voice as sexy as he does. (I’m not sure it’s working, but he’s hardly complaining, either.) “I’ll play you all summer long.”

I’m burning up. I can’t believe I _said_ that.

  
  


**BAZ**

Crowley.

I can’t _believe_ he just said _that_.

  
  


**SIMON**

“There’ll be a variety of games, I hope,” he murmurs. “And if you play your cards right, I’ll even let you win a few of them.”

Fuck, he’s slick. (Bastard!) (I _love_ it.)

“Yeah,” I laugh. “You know I’m shite with following rules.”

“Mm…” Baz tilts his face down, angling his lips towards my neck. I strain for it. (Probably a bad idea, but I’m doing it anyway.) “Truthfully...it’s one of the things I like about you.”

I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall. “Fuck, Baz…”

“But,” he says, clicking the ‘t’ in a way that makes my heart rate kick up, “I should warn you...I won’t be satisfied with just summer lessons.”

Baz is driving me mad. He’s not touching me, not kissing me, not giving an inch—and Merlin, hasn’t that always been the way with us? I want to tackle him, but this isn’t a fight—and I promised not to touch—but he’s _driving me mental_.

“Alright,” I groan. “I’ll tutor you from now on.onudo, draughts, Trivial Pursuit.”

I’m blushing and scowling, and Baz is peering at me with his thoughtful smirk—like he still doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

“Not enough?” I ask.

“No,” Baz breathes. “I want a degree in you, Simon Snow. I want the fucking doctorate. I want to play against you for the rest of my _life_.”

He’s not going to scare me away, if that’s what he’s going for. I’m so done being scared of him.

“Alright,” I say again, lifting my chin.

Baz shows his teeth, like that’s going to do anything other than turn me on. “ _Alright?_ ”

“Yeah.” I reach up to touch his face, but I’m still not sure if I’m allowed. “Yeah, let’s try that. I want that.”

Baz exhales shakily, then nudges his face into my hand, and every cell in my body screams _finally_. (And yeah, fine, part of me wants to scream _Jenga_ , too.)

“Baz,” I groan. “Can I touch you now?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Before he’s even finished hissing at me I’m shoving forward, one hand in his hair, the other around his waist. I push him back until his legs hit the bed, and just hold him there.

It’s a hell of a first kiss.

  
  
  


**BAZ**

Simon Snow is on me, clumsy and frenetic, unable to decide if he’d rather push or pull. I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I’ve no idea what I’m doing—we’re both rough and desperate, struggling to breathe. Perhaps Simon will leave me breathless for the rest of my life. (One can certainly hope.)

I twist my hand into his hair, the way I’ve wanted to for so many years. Snow eases up, no longer crushing his mouth into mine—his kisses turn long and soft, brimming with a warmth that I only hope is true.

He wants me. He _likes_ me.

He’s _kissing_ me.

He presses his broad body against mine, scorching me with his heat. He’s pouring low, soft sounds into my mouth, and doing something absolutely _incredible_ with his chin.

I gasp when Snow flicks open the button of my blazer, and I moan when he starts rubbing his hand in circles on my stomach. I’m melting and he’s grinning, enough so he has to break the kiss. I take the opportunity to brush my lips over the mole on his cheek, like I’ve wanted to do since we were twelve. Then I continue my mission, kissing along his jaw and neck, hitting all the spots I’ve mapped in my mind countless times. Snow whispers my name, and then we’re kissing again, touching from mouth to shoulder to waist.

We kiss until his heartbeat is too much for me to bear.

“Snow,” I mutter. “Where’s your cross?”

He shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Why don’t you know?”

Snow kisses along my neck. “Don’t care. Don’t need it anymore.”

“I’m a _vampire_.” It just falls out of me.

Snow cocks his head to one side. “Are you planning on biting me?”

“ _No._ Never.”

“Then it’s all good.”

“ _Snow_ ,” I groan.

He laughs. “Baz, I’ve known since fifth year. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

I sigh and slip out from between him and the wall. (I’ve had a thought.) (A filthy, irresistible thought.) Snow catches my sleeve and pulls me back against him. Crowley, he’s brutish when he wants to be. His hand curls around the back of my neck as he pulls me down into another kiss. 

Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

Somehow, I manage to extricate myself long enough to shuffle over to the wardrobe. It’s all a bit of a blur. A blur of lips and hands and tongues and _Simon_ —

He crowds me up against the wardrobe door the second it’s closed again, ravaging my neck. I loll my head the other way, breath stuttering. Our hands roam each other’s bodies, and then over the box I’ve retrieved—we’re fumbling and eager, yet desperate to savour it. There’s no rush. We have all night. (This game _takes_ all night.) We have all summer, we have…

“ _Ohhh,_ ” I moan as Snow lifts a corner of the lid, exposing the box’s contents.

My body is aching with lust and anticipation. I tug Snow’s bottom lip between my teeth and shove his blazer off his shoulder.

 _There’s no rush_.

Snow scrabbles at his tie, ripping it off over his head, then crashing his mouth against mine again. Our kisses are sloppy and inelegant—they’re all I’ve ever wanted. This isn’t a confession, like before—this is _desire_.

I’m half-hard, knowing he’s still holding the box. The push of Snow’s hips against mine reveals his own arousal. I groan against his lips, dizzy with hunger and the weight of his erection, pressing against the top of my thigh.

I don’t know when he puts the box down. Somehow it ends up on my bed, open and exposed, our shirts fluttering around it as we tear at each other’s buttons. Snow growls as he attacks my belt, abandoning his attempts when he realises he’d rather run his hands the length of my torso, instead. I let him push me against the wall again, and revel in the feeling of his hands on me, exploring every inch. I shiver, though I’m far from cold. 

“Enjoying yourself?” I ask, his fingers digging into my waistband. I can’t help but remember our previous evening of fun and games, and shiver again. “Do you want to know what’s in the box, Snow?”

“ _Yeah.”_ He says it with a purr that goes straight to my cock. Snow swipes his thumbs over my nipples, and my knees almost give way. “Tell me, Baz. Tell me what game it is.”

I stare at him, mind on the blink as he brushes my nipples again. “Monopoly. Is that a problem?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, “Baz. That’s _advanced_. That’s...that’s hardcore.”

He bends to lick a stripe along my chest. I’m close to collapse. “I asked if it was a problem, Snow,” I say through gritted teeth.

He licks me again. “Hell no.”

  
  


**SIMON**

All those days of watching Baz on the football pitch are making sense, now—that hot twist in my gut when he’d lift his shirt to wipe his face. He’s a fucking _sight_ , and I’m finally letting myself enjoy it.

I get distracted for a moment, thinking about Monopoly. It’s the worst of the worst, the game at the top of every banned list. I can so clearly picture the slash of Baz’s pale skin as he extends an elegant wrist, tossing the dice...the movement of his body, glistening with sweat as he works to pass Go...

I don’t have to imagine it. It’s right in front of me. _It’s going to happen_. Baz is lean and sharp, his skin smooth porcelain. I’m looking down the length of him, at the gentle slope of his stomach and the hint of dark hair, disappearing into his waistband...it’s like every part of him is designed to turn me on.

Baz is a bloody work of art, is what I’m saying.

A bloody beautiful evil genius.

He hums his pleasure, even though I’m basically just ogling him. Fuck _me_ , he looks good—his eyes are hooded and there’s a devilish lift to his well-kissed lips.

Baz rolls his body into my touch. “Are you planning on eye-fucking me _all_ night?”

“No,” I blurt. “Only for a bit.”

Baz grins. “Prove it.”

Snakes alive, I love this arsehole.

I shove against him and he moans, pulling me closer, until I’m pressing him against the wall with all my weight. It’s absolutely incredible to be skin-against-skin with him. Like diving into a pool on a hot summer day. I groan with relief.

Baz drags his nails up my back, and I feel something else there, too, cold and hard. I gasp as he drags it against my skin again, and I snatch at his wrist to see.

“Remember these?” Baz purrs.

“Oh, fuck,” I whimper.

Two red dice; two sixes.

That’s it—the trousers are coming _off_ , before I _go_ off. Baz’s hands are shaking worse than mine as he tosses the dice into the box on the bed, though he’s still more nimble than me. He gets my belt undone, then plucks at my flies after helping me open his own.

“Baz, can I…?” I tug at his trousers impatiently. (Those fucking _dice._ )

“You _may_ ,” he says into my ear. “Touch me, Snow. _Roll with me._ ”

That yanks a wild sound from me. I shove my hands at Baz’s crotch and tug him out of his pants. _Fuck_. I’m touching Baz’s cock, and it’s more terrifying this time, because we’re out in the open.

“ _Ah_...yes,” he sighs.

Merlin, he’s so much warmer here. He fits in my hand so well. It’s not like when I hold myself. (I’m not sure what the difference is, but I like it.)

I stroke him and he nips at me, which I reckon is an encouraging sign. I do it again, base to tip, until I find a rhythm he likes—when his hips start rocking, that’s when I’ll know.

“Oh, Snow...fuck…”

“Yeah? You like that?” I’m bolder, almost drunk with excitement. I glide my palm over him and his hips stutter.

“I believe that’s r-rather evident, you hazard.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” I shove closer, needing more of him. His sounds and mouth and scent and cock and _fuck_ , knowing what we still need to unbox...everything about this is making me wild. “Please, Baz—tell me...tell me h-how...to set up the game.”

The next thing I know, I’m being flipped. The room spins and suddenly _I’m_ slammed up against the wall. I groan, even though I’m not really complaining—Baz flashes me a dark grin and purrs into my ear.

“Don’t stop stroking me.”

“I won’t,” I promise. (Is this dirty talk? Is that what we’re doing now?)

“Good boy.” He hisses it against my lips. Baz’s cool hands slide down, down, _down…_ “I’m going to take out your cock, now, Snow. Later, we’ll take out the board and unfold it.”

I knock my head against the wall. “Fuck. Yeah. _Yes._ Please.”

Baz is palming me though my trousers. After everything we’ve done, it’s the first time he’s properly touched me there. It’s a relief and a tease, all at once. I shove my hips against his hand and gasp.

“W-what next?”

He licks at my neck. “ _The banker’s tray,”_ he breathes, “is of the utmost importance.”

“ _Oh god, Baz…_!”

  
  


**BAZ**

I revel in all the ways I can get Snow to say my name. A few squeezes to his clothed erection and he’s warbling like a songbird. What a glorious mess he is.

I torture Snow by stroking him through his pants, describing each of the bank notes to him in detail, starting with the one-pound note and climaxing with the heady heights of a crisp five hundred. I then move on to the metal playing pieces, enjoying how he squirms.

“Baz, c’mon, please, a _top hat_?”

“Mmm, Snow—and I can assure you that the top hat _will_ be mine. As for you...perhaps the battleship? Or...the _car_.”

“Take it out,” he groans, thrusting his crotch at me. “I need it—”

“You’re lucky I’m feeling charitable. Otherwise I’d make you play as the boot.”

“Yeah, you’re a real— _fuck_ —!” Snow sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth as my fingers dip inside his pants to draw him out. I pepper his neck with kisses—he’s just so _easy_ like this, eyes closed and face flushed, completely bereft of the ability to wank me off properly. I don’t mind—for now, I’m content to glory in the feeling of having Snow within my grasp, at last.

I’ve spent many hours of my life fantasising about Snow and I doing precisely this to each other. A manic wank against our bedroom wall has always been quite high on the list of possible scenarios, though I always imagined it coming after a fierce row, and not as I mutter the names of the train stations into his ear, my free hand wrapped up in his hair.

“ _King’s Cross, Marylebone, Fenchurch Street, Liverpool Street…_ ”

“Baz, oh, fuck, that’s—yeah, yeah, good, fuck, Baz, _please_ —”

“Rather inarticulate, aren’t we?” I murmur against his cheek.

Snow tries to sound affronted, but quickly melts into a laugh. “Fuck you.” He nudges his face against me. “You awful prick,” he says, lips finding my own.

“Alas, it seems you rather like my awful prick.”

It’s something out of my deepest, most repressed dreams to have Snow like this, hot with kisses, coaxing pleasure from me. Our fingers brush and we’re both breathless, moving against each other. He breaks the kiss and I lean my forehead to his, breathing each other’s sighs as our hips and hands rock in tandem.

“You’ve always been my favourite subject,” Snow moans. My heart flutters.

I kiss him again. What else am I to do? How does one respond to such a thing? There are no words to express this ache, this feeling. To hear such a sentiment from him...well, I completely forget about torturing him with the names of the blue properties, let’s put it that way.

The kiss ends, and we both look down between us as our hands continue to work. I can feel every throb of his pulse, every beat of his heart—it’s excruciating, and I’ve no idea if it’s solely due to my vampirism, and I really don't care. He’s delicious. I might very well come soon, but there is no way I’m letting Snow off the hook tonight before I pummel him at Monopoly.

“Fuck, Baz.” Snow’s rhythm falters as he delights in the sight of us. “ _Amazing_.”

“It _is_ a rather good view, is it not?”

“Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And, well, he’s right. But then Snow pulls his hand away to lick across the flat of his palm, before going right back to wanking me off—and now _that_ is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You miscreant,” I snarl. “The board’s not even set up, yet.”

He grins at me impishly. “You love it. Just think about it, Baz—all those properties, all that money lying around unused, ignored, because we’re too busy doing _this_.” 

“That filthy mouth of yours,” I groan. “It’s only ever been good for trouble. And now...well, we’ve uncovered so many other things it’s good for, haven’t we?”

Snow leans his head against the wall, taunting me with the long line of his neck and the swell of his freckled chest. “Like kissing?” he asks.

“Yes,” I admit. I draw my hand the length of his body, until I’m cradling his face. “And breaking the rules.” I push my middle and forefinger against his parted lips. “Are you going to cheat at Monopoly, Snow?”

Snow holds my gaze, and the whole thing is devastatingly hot. I’m vaguely concerned about my orgasm, which is growing ever imminent, but I push the thought far away in my mind. Everything is about Snow, in this moment—the movement of his hips growing increasingly unsteady, his muscles taut as he strains against me, the nonsense tumbling from his mouth as he promises to steal two hundred pounds from the banker’s tray, each time around the board.

I withdraw my fingers and he pulls me close, kissing me deeply.

“You’re trembling,” I whisper, disgustingly enchanted by the state we’re both in.

“Not quite built f-for endurance, yet,” he moans, rutting against me more urgently. “I’ve not spent all my f-free time wanking and playing games, like you— _ahhh_ —apparently have.”

I have to laugh at that. “Not to worry. I’ve seen you fight—I know what kind of stamina you’re capable of. But for now…” I lean back from Snow and wipe my fingers along the length of us.

“Ah...Baz—”

He’s so lovely, like this.

“Baz, please. I’ll die if you don’t let me set up the game—”

“Hush, you aren’t ready yet. Not by a long shot.”

I reach under his bed and sift through the jumble of rubbish and tatty clothes before my hand lights on the thing I want, that I knew would be there. Snow whines pathetically at me, trying to get me to hurry up.

“I’m doing you a favour, you ingrate. Stay still.”

I push back up against him, sliding our cocks together and pushing his hand down to grasp us. Snow stares down, mouth hanging open (more than usual). He’s obedient, still as I open my palm to show him the contents of my other hand.

I flick the top row around with one hand and he gasps wetly. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Snow’s near-constant fiddling on a day to day basis would be ideal for this particular game. His hand comes up and twists—he moves in a mesmerizing way with each shift to the Rubik’s cube.

I’m able to hold it perfectly still for him.

“Wh-what the fuck,” Snow blurts. “What are you—?”

I release a shaky note of triumph—I guide our cocks together, the wetness between us making it all the easier. With each shallow pump of my hands, he moves the cube in perfect time.

“Jesus Christ,” Snow whimpers. (I hate that I love his horrible Normal curses.) “How—? What—? How do you _think_ of this stuff?”

“I told you.” My voice quivers as much as his does. “I take my studies over the summer quite seriously."

Snow laughs, incredulous. “You spend all summer watching porn and playing solo?”

“Not _all_ summer.”

Snow’s smile is a stupid thing, his movement of the cube anything but. “You’re ridiculous,” he moans. “ _This_ is ridiculous. Why—why is it so hot?”

I’m smiling, too. “Does it matter?” I don’t bother to question these things anymore—I’ve come to terms with my disturbed fantasies, and this doesn’t even come close to the most depraved.

“Nope,” Snow grunts, “nope, no, it doesn’t.” He reaches out with shaky, bumbling hands, pawing at the cube. 

“Fucking seven hells, Baz—"

A laugh tumbles out of me. Snow’s right—all of this is ridiculous. The Chosen One and the Heir of House Pitch, so fervid with pent up desire that they’ve resorted to fucking against the wall of their room, playing banned games and too addled to even undress fully or get comfortable elsewhere.

“You feel amazing,” I tell Snow. It seems all he can do is curse and give me a desperate look in return. “So hard, so eager.”

I can feel the throb of him become more promising. His hands on the cube are erratic. It’s thrilling to witness him falling apart at my touch.

“Baz, oh, oh Merlin, oh fuck—” he blathers. Snow knocks his forehead against mine, no longer able to even sloppily kiss. “Gonna _explode_.”

“Good. Do it.” We tilt our pressed heads down to look. I think Snow’s as excited to see himself finish as I am. “Go on, Snow. Come on me.”

Snow whimpers, his rough hands scrambling at the Rubik’s cube with misdirected urgency, given I’m the one controlling his pleasure. Then with a sigh of triumph he finishes the puzzle—Snow rumbles out a whole musical movement as his orgasm floods his senses.

I get tunnel vision at the sight. He’s a lovely shade of desperate, only further highlighted by the paleness of my fingers wrapped around him. 

“Oh, oh fuck, Baz! Yeah, yeah,” Snow babbles, voice laced with euphoria. “Fuck, that’s so hot—”

“So hot,” I agree stupidly. I’m too dazed from the sight of Snow coming on my cock as he wins (who knew his ape-like hands would be so skilled with puzzles) to manage anything remotely inspired.

My passion ratchets upwards as Snow shoves even closer to me. And then, _oh,_ and then—

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz is moaning out these ragged sounds with each stroke. His voice cracks when he tries to say my name in warning (my last name, unfortunately). He curls towards me, thudding his forehead to my shoulder as chills of pleasure race down his spine.

Lovely, he’s so fucking lovely...

We’re left with a hell of a sticky mess—I’ve no idea whose come is whose anymore. Not that it matters. Which makes a laugh bubble up in me.

Baz whines into my shoulder, the last of his pleasure ebbing away. “The fuck...are you laughing at...?”

“Sorry,” I say, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m just happy, I like to win.” I give him what I hope is a cheeky grin. 

Baz peels himself off me to give me a squinty look. I kiss him, and then again, because he’s still looking too sceptical.

We both look down at the scene between us. Baz frowns. “Shower?” I suggest.

“Merlin, yes.”

We finally push away from the damn wall and work on getting our trousers and pants off, trying not to spread the mess around too much. The Rubik’s cube is a health hazard. 

Once we’re both starkers, I tail Baz to the bathroom. He washes his hands even though we’re about to take a shower, then ferrets around under the sink. Has this sneaky bastard got games hidden in every corner of the room? 

“Hurry the fuck up, Pitch. Get in.”

I can see Baz’s jaw tense, but then he steps over the side of the tub to join me. 

“Move,” he hisses, and positions himself under the spray by the wall. “You still need more time to warm up.”

My cheeks hurt from all this grinning. “Is this why your showers take so fucking long? I thought it was just posh twattery.”

Baz grunts and moves the foam pieces onto the wall. It’s a noughts and crosses set. Waterproof. I giggle ‘cause it’s cute as fuck. (The noughts are ducks.)

I try to move around him so I can get a better look but he’s being stubborn. “Don’t be a git.”

“That’s my defining characteristic,” he drawls.

I kiss his cheek. “No, it’s not.” The tension starts melting out of him as he plans his first move.

We work on the game while we’re getting clean. It’s hard to believe I’m showering with Baz. I should probably concentrate more, but he’s so close.

It’s intimate.

Not tender, but almost.

I can’t stop myself from watching Baz the entire time. 

He huffs at me as I crowd him under the water. There’s nothing for it—I have to hold him.

“What are you doing, you numpty?” Baz’s voice isn’t grumpy at all when he says it. He slides his last cross into place and soundly beats me. I’ve never given less of a fuck.

Baz exhales, like he isn’t sure if he should scoff or sigh, so I put my hands in his hair and drag him down to kiss me before he says something stupid. (I’m sure he’s already thinking something stupid.)

  
  


**BAZ**

I’ve been kissing Snow in the shower for Chomsky knows how long. It’s sublime...heavenly. He wasn’t even paying attention to the game. (Maybe it really _isn’t_ about the games.) 

I don’t know how I’m allowed to have this...but I am. I have him here, in my arms, sharing a post-game shower. Well, not post-game as per the strict definition. Perhaps pre-game —Crowley, I hope so.

I can’t fathom how, but I do manage to stop kissing Simon Snow and get us properly washing up again.

“Can I help?” he asks as I lather shampoo into my hair.

“No, you’re distracting. Get out if you’re finished.”

“Just hurry up,” he says.

“I have more to do.” I prod him again. “Go. I’ll join you in twenty minutes.”

Snow’s dismay is comical. “Twenty minutes!” he baulks.

“Oh, please,” I cluck at him. “I’ve waited for you for years—you can handle twenty minutes.”

The glow of realisation on Snow’s face is what alerts me to the true weight of my confession.

I do a thorough job of cleaning up in preparation for the main event. Though, knowing my luck, Snow has probably fallen asleep. 

I exit the en suite after sufficiently drying off, my hair pushed back and hanging damp behind my ears. I’m clad only in a towel, which is laughably nerve-racking after everything that’s happened.

Snow clearly feels no such attachment to modesty: he’s lounging back on my bed, completely naked.

“Took you long enough. We’ll be playing well into tomorrow, at this rate.” Snow sluggishly hangs his legs off the side of the bed and stands. “Figured there was no point in getting dressed.”

I swallow. “Evidently."

Snow’s still giving me that lopsided smile. He reaches for me and hooks his fingers in my towel. “Yeah. So. You’re overdressed.”

“Your entire wardrobe consists of ratty tees and trackies, Snow—everyone is always overdressed compared to you.”

Snow leans up for my mouth and mutters an endearing _“Shut up, Baz”_ before kissing me.

I let Snow’s fingers dislodge my towel.

“Now let's get everything out,” he growls, and it sounds so _filthy_.

The box is right there, waiting and ready. I lick my lips—Snow’s breath catches. A visible twitch goes through him; he’s eager to spring to life from merely the suggestion of what comes next.

“Baz...”

I gather my nerve, then sit down next to him and open the box. His breath is already shaky. I take out the folded board, exploring the expanding length with my fingertips. I can feel the thrum of his pulse, so ready to begin.

He can’t hold back as I smooth my palm over the waiting squares, casually pausing over the electricity company.

“Ohhhh, Baz...”

I drag the community chest cards out and place them carefully on their space. Snow breathes harder and clutches my wrist in his hands as a way of bracing himself. So well behaved...

He’s staring at me, mouth hanging open, skin flushed. He whimpers when I glance up at him—I wonder how I look, holding a handful of chance cards.

“Sweet merciful fuck,” Snow keens.

I hum my approval before pushing the car token towards him. The sensation of Snow becoming fully engaged in a game this complex is unlike anything I could have imagined.

My grasp on Snow’s car slackens and I reach for the top hat.

“Ready?” I ask, not knowing if _I_ am.

“Baz, Baz,” Snow whispers “It’s—you’re—oh _God_ , Baz.”

He’s pitifully greedy now. I need to start this. I roll the dice and move five spaces. No buying on the first round—this is just a warm up.

We find a slow pattern to work with, gentle throws of the dice and cautious moves. 

There’s the building sense of something so uniquely _us_. Rivalry, conflict and antagonism all distilled down into lust and Monopoly.

I open my eyes to gaze up at him. My chest constricts at the sight—Snow looks dazed, breathless, his eyebrows drawn up and his cheeks ruddy.

He’s beautiful.

"You're beautiful,” he says.

I’m so startled by it, I drop the dice. "Because I'm losing to you?" I say.

“What?” Snow blinks a few times, struggling to follow even this simple conversation. "No. Because you are.”

I give him a faintly haughty look, then slip my top hat over Mayfair and back to Go.

Snow croaks out a failed attempt at speech. On his second try, he manages it: “That is so beautiful, too.” His fingers on the dice are shaking. He rolls a four and catches up to me. 

The way he’s looking at me and touching the board...it makes me weak. 

I narrow my eyes at him. "How can you trust me after everything?"

Snow looks surprised at that. He falls silent, chewing on his lip and staring off, considering it.

"I don't know,” Snow finally says. He tops it off with a shrug, because of course he does. “A few months ago, I'd say I could never trust you. But things have been right educational lately, haven't they? You've taught me a lot. And you’ve never once taken advantage or cheated, and you could have.”

I’m gawking. I clear my throat. “I suppose so.”

Simon runs both hands through my hair, and smiles down at me with such radiance that I fear for my highly flammable nature. "I intend to put all that learning to good use,” he says.

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz is looking at me strangely—does he want to punch me, kiss me, or force me to sell him my water company? (I’m hoping it’s the kissing. I better lean into him and check.)

He makes this pretty little sound against my mouth. He’s soundly beating me at the game, robbing me of another fifty quid in rent, and I’m getting all sorts of ideas about how I might distract him.

I slide down the bed, moving my hands along him, enjoying the colour in his face as it rises.

“Snow, what are you—?”

“Focus,” I say quickly, handing him the dice. “Roll one more double and you have to go to jail, Baz. Three in a row—that’s the rule.” I figure I didn’t do all that sucking on his fingers for no reason—time to put _that_ lesson to use, next.

Baz grips the edge of the bed, rolling a double four—what are the odds?—and sliding his top hat onto the jail square. His starts shuffling his chance cards, avoiding my gaze.

“No, no, Baz, play fair. You can’t use a card until your next turn.” I take in the sight of him. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but he’s hard, and that’s a good place to start.

“Oh. Yes. Well. Right,” he mumbles, flustered and perfect.

I drag my tongue along Baz’s cock, licking him like an ice lolly. He’d probably be pissed off if he knew I was thinking about food at a time like this, but oh well. I close my eyes and keep going, hoping this is enough to knock Baz off his stride.

“Snow…?” Baz’s voice is breathy and wavering.

I open my eyes to look up at him, reaching up for the dice he’s trying to push into my hand. I don’t even look where they land—I let him move my car and take my move for me. (This is me, trusting Baz.)

“Snow…” Baz tries again. I hum around him to let him know I’m listening. He growls and watches me work him in and out. “Do you...want to buy the A-Angel Islington?”

I pull off him and wipe my hand across my mouth. “What?”

Baz’s cheeks are dark. “Angel Islington. A blue property. You already have one of the others—are you going for the set?”

Is he—is this—?

“Baz,” I say, amazed. “Are you trying to _help_ me?” (Should I be offended that he was thinking about property cards while I was sucking him off?)

It takes a second...then he smiles at me. It’s this shy thing, with his lashes lowered. He looks...I don’t know? Demure? Vulnerable? No— _soft_.

I smile right back at him and rub his thigh. “Yeah. I definitely want that card,” I assure him. I want to be soft, too. I lean down and press a kiss into his hip. “That okay?”

Baz nods gently. “Of course. I’ll take care of the transaction.”

I feel a bit bad, to be honest. Here I am, scheming to put him off his game via the magic of his cock in my mouth, and he’s trying to help me keep up. I push back down and take him into my mouth again, because I feel like I owe him a favour, and to be honest, it’s kind of _hot._

Baz is panting and moaning, using his chance card and sliding out of jail, itching to catch up with me as I move into the pink properties. I’m still tossing the dice blindly, more interested in what he tastes like. I love it. I want _more_ of it. I’m really getting into it—it’s an effort not to reach down and start touching myself.

“The Mage,” Baz says suddenly, showing me his community chest card for winning a beauty pageant and taking fifteen pounds out of my cash pile. “He’d be furious if he knew what we were doing.”

I blink at him. “Sorry—am I _that_ bad at this?”

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused. “No. Do go on, Simon.”

“Why the fuck are you thinking about the _Mage_?”

He’s embarrassed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Right. Not the time. Sorry. I was just thinking about landing on the super tax square, and his face sprang to mind.”

I push myself up and straddle Baz. It surprises him—in a good way, seems like. I sling my arms around his neck, and he sets his hands on my hips while I roll.

“What sort of dark shit’s going through your head, then?”

Baz arches one of his perfect brows. I’ve just landed on Trafalgar Square, and he owns it. Shit. I groan as he shuffles through my dwindling pile of money.

“I was merely concerned for you. For the trouble you’d be in, if he knew you’d been playing illegal games with me.”

“And you were thinking about this while I was sucking your cock?”

He twitches. “I was, ah....”

Baz’s eyes are stuck on my mouth. It takes me a second to get it.

“ _Oh._ ” He rolls and takes his time forking up the cash for a train station. Bastard’s getting away from me—I’ll be bankrupt within the hour, at this rate. “You were trying not to come.”

Baz grimaces. “Fuck off. _You_ were trying to distract me from whipping you at Monopoly. It didn’t work, in case that wasn’t already clear.”

I snicker. “I was that good, eh? Told you I’m a fast learner.”

Baz sneers at me, squeezing me with his hands. “Yes, the list of things you’re good at now contains two whole entries. Congratulations.”

“Hey, come on, be fair—I was pretty good at chess, as well.”

I’m way too pleased with myself as I lean over him, a hand on either side of his head. “Swords and my mouth, yeah? Ready to see how I do with _serious_ Monopoly?”

There’s a flush high across Baz’s cheeks. His face relaxes, eyebrows lowering, lids drooping. His mouth curls wickedly—I shiver with need. “Quite ready,” he whispers.

  
  


**BAZ**

I push Snow off me in order to collect the dice, which I toss at him. I then take a minute to salvage our rumpled clothes from the floor of our room, draping garments over the backs of chairs, and hanging the towel in the bathroom. Snow, naturally, complains about anything that resembles basic tidiness.

“Is now the time? The game’s afoot!”

I sneer at him for old time’s sake. “If I had known you were going to be such a menace, I wouldn’t have agreed to any of this.”

Snow is all smiles. (Resplendent bastard.) “Whatever you say, Baz.”

I fluff the pillows and lie back, Snow kneeling across from me. If we’re to do this properly, I want to be an active participant in the overall spectacle, so I draw my knees up and let my legs fall apart, giving Snow the view of a lifetime. I watch him watch me, luxuriating in the flashes of excitement in his face.

Snow gulps. He shoves a rather alarming amount of money from the bank into my lap. He’s even rubbing the dice between his fingers, warming them up for me. Snow’s free hand strokes along my thigh—I roll my hips up and spread wider.

“I’ve had my fill of foreplay,” I inform him. It feels fucking marvellous, but I _will_ lose my mind if he doesn’t start charging me rent. I need Snow’s demanding, persistent, ruthless sense of competition to come alive tonight—I _need_ it. I’ve waited too long, worked too hard.

“So demanding,” he says, voice thrumming with self-satisfaction. He watches me roll without any fanfare, immediately setting up the sale of Leicester Square on my behalf, passing me the property card with a shaking hand.

I melt against the pillows with a sigh. Having Snow in charge of the banker’s tray is terrifying and wonderful. After everything he’s done, he’s yet to be charge of a game. His transaction is efficient...it was difficult enough feeling the heat of his mouth wrapped around me—now I must endure the heat of his _financial responsibility_.

I slide the property card into my carefully colour-coded arrangement, pressing my hands into the sheets as he runs a finger around the edge of the new arrival.

“How’s that?” Snow asks, flicking his eyes up to mine.

“Fine,” I say.

“Just _fine?_ ”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “What do you want, a glowing review? It’s immensely satisfying, of course, seeing them together.”

“The yellow properties.”

“Yes,” I purr. “All of them, together. As things should be.”

Snow exhales in a mixture of frustration and amusement. I consider downplaying my satisfaction further, but he steals my breath away by kissing my hip and sliding his token past the jail square.

I can’t resist squirming, my hips trying to chase him as he drags his mouth away. Then he pushes the car onto Regent Street, making me toss my head back with a long moan. Snow does it again, slow as he pulls the token back a space, then forceful on the push, over and over, drawing all sorts of soft sounds out of me.

It’s glorious. All I have to do is lie back and revel in both the anticipation for each of his moves, and then the awe at the pleasure each one coaxes out of me. Snow kisses my thigh while undoing me with a single turn. “How’s _that_?” he asks.

“F-fine…”

He hooks his finger around the car, applying firm pressure as he shunts it forward another space. (An illegal move, but I’m too delirious to care.) I whine pathetically. “Sounds better than _fine_.” He trails his teeth along my inner thigh.

“Snow,”—I try to sound menacing and fail miserably—”focus less on your ego and more on the board.”

His response comes as a pleased growl that ghosts his hot breath along my skin. He sits up, giving me a flinty smirk, and then begins rifling insolently through the banker’s tray with a marauding hand.

“Oh, Morgana, _yes_ —”

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz acts like a real piece of work, but he’s easier to please than I would’ve guessed. Or maybe I’m _that_ good at Monopoly. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to work hard for it—I want him so wrecked with pleasure, he can’t even begin to fake his usual layer of composure.

I’m working two fingers into the tray now, royally fucking up the carefully stacked money. “Great snakes,” Baz gasps, thighs clenching as I try to mix the fives in with the ones. His hips jerk off the bed once I succeed, and he lets out this long string of inventive curses.

“Oh, Baz.” I decimate the twenties with small movements, making his body rock as I get my fingers into the fifty pound notes. What a sight. “If you wanted things all out of order, you should have just told me.”

“Fuck...you…” He’s probably going for intimidating, but it just sounds desperate. (I _love_ it.)

I meet his eyes and grin. “Maybe another time.” I pull my hand out of the tray, then shove back in as far as I can. I can barely hear the lewd shuffling of the houses and hotels over Baz’s cry.

Merlin, he’s breathtaking. Splayed out and straining, naked, drenched in moonlight. _Fuck_.

If this is what he’s like when I mess up the unclaimed cards, what would happen if I reached over and shuffled _his_ deck? (That _is_ what all of this is leading to, right?)

Can’t think about messing up Baz’s neatly ordered cards—it’s getting me too hot. I have to focus on dismantling him, wrecking his concentration, doing whatever I can to make him ache for me.

I find a new tactic: I nudge my car alongside his top hat on Park Lane, then nudge his token out of the way, searching out all the different spots on the square that make him gasp and writhe. Then I pull the car off with one smooth drag, before starting all over again.

Each time I withdraw, Baz makes this low, aching sound. He’s trembling, eager. _Hungry._

I’m hungry, too.

“Baz,” I groan.

“Yes, _yes_ , Snow!”

We’re both so close. _So close_ to passing Go again.

Baz is growling in this breathy, musical way. I want to draw more sounds out of him—I want to play him, make him sing. But I also want to fuck him up. (And maybe just fuck him, to be honest.) It’s all getting pretty blurry and hot.

I’m about to roll again—Baz definitely seems eager enough to continue—but then he reaches down to clutch at my forearm with both hands.

“More,” he begs. Baz grips my arm and pushes my hand into my pathetic pile of cash. “ _More_ , Snow. You owe me more rent than that—” His expression is wild.

“Holy shit,” I blurt. I scramble to cover the debt, sure to keep one finger hooked in the chaos of the banker’s tray as Baz grinds against my hip. “Love it that much, huh?”

“Fuck. Yes, Snow—” His sounds come more freely now. Deep, dark pleas mixing in with high whimpers when I stroke the cash just right. “More...Crowley...yes, more, Snow, you know that’s not enough - just like that!”

I place the money on his pile, note by note. I try not to stare. (To be honest I don’t try very hard. At all.) His cock is drooling continuously, and I feel like I could drool too at the sight of it. He’s so desperate, so hot—I’m in danger of coming just from watching him.

“You’ve got so much, Baz,” I groan at him. I wonder if he can even hear me over all his moaning. “So eager for it. You need this win, don’t you? You’re gagging for it.”

Baz shoots me a look that’s probably supposed to be intimidating. He’s flushed and sweating and all twisted up with intense pleasure. I’m gagging for it just watching him.

“Keep going,” he insists, voice breaking. He’s trembling so hard; there’s no way he can play in the state he’s in. 

He can’t hold anything at all—and I need him to play so badly, I need to touch his cards, I need to push him down into the game and make him pay rent on each and every square. I thrust the dice at him. 

I want to ask him if I can switch out my cash for my cock, but he’s already mindless with how close he is, and I want Baz coherent when I claim him for the first time. (Which might not be today after all. But that’s all right. We have time.)

Baz keens and shoves his feet into the bed as I let the last note drift down onto his pile and give his cock a quick stroke.

He sucks in a breath, holds it, then goes perfectly quiet and still—

And then he’s coming. It’s such a fucking display. I’m pretty sure the challenge of this game is the only thing keeping me from tilting over the edge, just from witnessing this.

And then he’s collapsing, catching his breath. He’s making all these soft sounds between tightly pressed lips. I watch him inhale, watch his expression slowly soften...

I realize I was so busy staring at, well, all of him, I didn’t see how the dice landed.

“Baz...?”

He croons a soft sound in response.

“Did...did you throw ...?”

Baz finally opens his eyes to give me a lust-drunk look. “Was that not obvious...?” 

“But, I mean.” I look down at the empty board. “There’s no dice.”

“Well spotted.” He clears his throat and shifts his hips. “That can...happen. From an exceptionally good throw, particularly when someone is paying up in such a distracting way.”

My eyebrows go up. “What was that, Baz? Distracting?”

Baz rolls his eyes—I can see his mouth quirking against a smile. 

“Yes, Snow. It was a very good showing.” I grin wide. “Ugh, stop it.” Baz flaps a hand at me. “Pick up the dice; they’ve just rolled off the bed.”

I grumble about it but do as I’m told.

**BAZ**

en snakes...that was...otherworldly.

I stay amongst my pillows and attempt to catch my breath.

I’m still painfully aroused. I’m light-headed with it. I nearly begged for Snow to just shove it in.

He’s deliberately bending over the edge of the bed, giving me quite the view—I’ve barely begun to collect myself.

I prop myself up on my elbows and follow Snow with my eyes. He deposits the dice on the board and then slouches into my lap like an exceptionally lazy house cat. He better not be too lazy to play me into the mattress.

“Ready to finish this, Pitch?” Snow demands. “I don’t know how much longer I can last.” He sits back up, donning a pout and an erection, which is a combination that I didn’t expect to find quite this alluring.

“We’ll just have to do something about it, won’t we?” I give a quick flick of my eyes down to his flushed cock, then raise an eyebrow at him expectantly.

“That would be good.” Snow’s gaze flips between the board and my crotch. 

“See something you want, Snow?” I settle the dice in my palm.

“Yeah.” Snow’s fiery eyes meet mine. He looks like he’s holding back from tackling me.

I nudge my dice into his hand. He inhales sharply. His hands closes around them, squeezing tightly. 

“Tell me,” I rumble. I flick through my money, fanning it out. 

Snow growls in the back of his throat. “I want...” His eyes keep jumping back and forth between my cash and my arse. 

“Tell me.” I push my cards into perfect order. 

Snow snarls and throws the dice. I’m moaning with delight. He moves closer and closer to Go. “Let me, Baz,” he begs, voice tight with crumbling restraint.

I run my tongue along my lips in what is likely an overly licentious manner. Though Snow looks like he’s about to explode from the sight, so perhaps it’s exactly right. “Let you what, Snow?” I bite out.

He’s breathing hard, sliding his ridiculous car ever closer.

“Let—” he tries. Snow slides his hand slowly along the board, until he reaches his destination. Mayfair. “Baz,” he tries again. “Let me give you everything.”

That’s not at all what I expected him to say.

As has been proven time and again to be my curse, I am powerless to resist crashing into him—I surge up to grasp him and Snow doesn’t delay in circling his arms around me to pull me closer.

(Nothing could _ever_ be close enough.)

My mouth collides with his. I clumsily kiss him. It’s firm and insistent and far too revealing of the swirling emotions rattling my rib cage: love, desire, fear, relief, _hope..._

I break away due to the breathlessness of divine anguish. “Yes,” I exhale against his mouth. “But not this turn, love—that was a double. You have to throw again.”

Snow holds me to him, his embrace strong and burning. He kisses a path over my cheek, jaw, neck...like I’m something to cherish. It’s too much. (It’s not enough.)

“I don’t think I’ll last,” he warns in between kisses. 

“That’s fine.” I tangle a hand into his curls. “I want you to go right to the end.”

Snow nods. “Okay.” He leans back to look at me. Those unremarkable blue eyes of his do nothing to temper the affection threatening to burst from my body. “Okay, let’s do it.”

“Okay.”

**SIMON**

I’m terrified.

Baz is waiting. Waiting for me to throw and lose everything to him. 

I’m not sure why I’m terrified.

Baz wants me. He’s ready. He’s here, right where I want him. Where I’ve _always_ wanted him.

Right.

It’s momentous, is the thing. It’s what we’ve been careening towards for way too long. And now the moment’s here, and I’m worried I’m going to fuck it all up somehow.

We’re together now, we’ve got all the time in the world, we don’t have to do this right now.

But we _want_ to. Why keep waiting?

I position myself to make what will undoubtedly be me last throw, and start moving the car.

So what if I lose too fast? I’ve already bollocksed up plenty of things in front of Baz.

I rub the base of my token into each square, slowly. It’s well hot. 

“Snow...”

I glance up to find Baz staring at me with an expression I can’t describe. Definitely soft. Open. Filled with yearning. Makes my breath catch.

If I fuck this up...well. Baz can have a good gripe about it and mock me. That’s not new.

All of that, and I still like him.

All of that, and he still likes _me_.

“Ready?” I ask. I give a small nudge, just enough that it feels like It might not be the end. 

Baz’s lashes flicker. “Excessively,” he breathes.

So...I push on.

**BAZ**

I hold the sheets tight enough I might tear them. I hold my breath, too.

It’s similar to the discomfort I’ve put myself through on numerous occasions, yet nothing like it at the same time...it’s the culmination of years of yearning, the manifestation of everything I’ve ever wanted: Simon Snow, braced to go bankrupt. (Morally. Emotionally. Within the unforgiving context of Monopoly.) (Crowley, it’s _glorious_.)

The moment Snow is parked firmly enough on Mayfair to owe me all of his remaining cash and property, I claw at his arm, desperate to have him closer. 

He follows willingly. He pushes me down onto the board, small plastic hotels flying everywhere. He laughs as he removes a tiny metal iron from my hair. 

There are kisses, and hands, wetness and heat. We’re awkward and bumbling, pulling at each other, leaving feather-light kisses wherever we can. I have the mind to retrieve lubricant from the small locked compartment at the bottom of my game box. (I’m disturbed. Ask anyone.) Then I have to think about Simon Snow being _in me_ , first with one finger, then with two, and I contend with the knowledge that it isn’t enough.

Nothing could ever be enough for me, when it comes to him.

But perhaps we can get close.

“Baz,” he gasps, fingers slick as he slides out of me, leaving me desperate for more. More of this, more of _him_. (Is this how he bankrupts _me_? By robbing me of my senses?) 

He’s kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m made of more than gold and starlight.

“Baz...I would’ve given you any of my properties. You know that, right?” I count the freckles on his chest as he breathes. “Wouldn’t trade the post-game for anything, mind.”

I pull him on top of me, desperate for him. He slips into me as he settles, blanketing me with his weight and heat.

He’s scalding. I might be melting. I might be dying.

It _feels_ like winning. In a good way.

It feels like we both win.

“Alright, Baz?” he murmurs into the crook of my neck. I don’t know when he got there. He’s braced on his elbows on either side of my head. My arms are looped under his, my nails digging into his shoulder blades. (Random game pieces are digging into mine.)

“Y...yeah....”

“Yeah?” He keeps pressing in. A moan floats out of me. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Snow,” I snap—or rather, I try. It’s difficult to be querulous when Simon Snow is splitting me apart with his cock.

“Right, then.”

Snow pulls himself up against me even closer. I adjust the angle of the board underneath me while hitching a leg over his waist, and that’s when it all fits into place—we both moan as Snow fully seats himself inside me.

“Amazing, Baz,” he huffs against my forehead. “You feel. Fucking amazing.”

“Not—” I’m cut off with a gasp when Snow presses in a touch more forcefully this time, complete with a soft slap of skin on board game. “Not too bad yourself,” I finally manage.

Snow gazes down at me lustily, his mouth hanging open in a grin as his tongue prods along his bottom lip. It’s horrific, how erotic I find it.

“Probably not as good as your chess set though, yeah?” Snow’s voice is thick. He pushes us flush together. 

“Better than,” I blurt. I can feel my walls quaking around him. It’s good, and only made improbably better when Snow retreats just so before intruding on me so completely once again.

“Really?” Snow growls. “How so?”

“Sexier, hotter.” I moan. Snow gives another one of those lovely shoves. 

“Better than solitaire?” He grunts into me, like the gorgeous oaf he is.

I bring my other leg up around him, my heels resting on his arse. I can feel the muscles there flex as he presses into me once more. “Alive,” I add weakly, “so alive.” A particularly graceless shove sends the chance cards careening to the floor. “You,” I whine. “Just _you_.”

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz is so fucking lovely, it hurts.

Maybe—maybe if I can hold on just a little bit longer—I can push an orgasm right out of him. I stop so I can lean back on one arm, get some better leverage. Baz makes the most petulant sound when I do. He opens his eyes to glare at me—it’s hardly intimidating, with how well shagged he looks, like _he’s_ the one that just lost the epic marathon of Monopoly. 

I can’t stop yet, though. “Can I do it harder?”

Baz gives me a shitty little sneer that makes my guts twist. “I don’t know, Snow. Can you?”

A growl rips its way out of me as I give Baz one good, hard thrust. He cries out, his head tossing back. I let him have a moment to just tremble, then I do it again. _“Fuck—!”_ he sobs.

I try to get a pattern going, but I’m already so fucking close. Baz’s body is constricting on me even more now—it’s making my brain go fuzzy.

Baz sobs and snaps his head to the side, his free hand flying up to cover his mouth. It’s just jarring enough that it yanks me back from hitting the point of no return.

“No—no, Baz.” I slow down to a more gentle fuck and shift my weight so I can take Baz’s wrist. “C’mon. Don’t do that.” Baz glares at me, looking dazed and wary. “Don’t hide from me. I’ve seen you doing more dangerous and illegal things than this—I’ve done them _with_ you.” I urge, trying to sound soft. “I want _all_ of you.”

Baz breathes hard for a minute. I can see the muscle in his jaw working. Then, he opens his mouth. I can see his fangs, gleaming white and pushing out over his lip.

My cock jumps inside him.

 _“Wicked,”_ I say. (Or moan.) (Yeah, that was more of a moan, really.)

“You’re an idiot,” he murmurs. There’s a faint slur to his speech. I don’t know why, but I find that hot, too.

“Yeah. And you like it.”

I slide my fingers between Baz’s and pin his hand to the bed near his head. I’m pressing the dice between our palms, and his eyes light up with hunger.

“I’m close, so close.” Baz squeezes my hand tight—I’d be more worried about the crush of it if my world wasn’t going white—“Give it to me, you glorious fuck. Come in me. Give me all of it...!”

Baz Pitch is begging for me while he’s stretched out across a banned game. I mean. How could I _not_ give him what he wants?

I cry out some combination of curses and his name—I think it might be “fuck, Baz, take it, take it, _bankrupt the living fuck out of me!”,_ but I’m so bloody ruined, it might just be a mangled howl.

And then I’m going off.

  
  


**BAZ**

Last time, with Simon pushing me down into a crumpled Jenga tower, with him invading all of my senses, I thought that I was finally full. That I could be satiated. I was so wrong.

 _This_ is it. This is that moment. With his eyes on me, our fingers entangled, and my name on his lips as he stutters against my body with each wave of orgasm that pulses through him, then pulses through me.

I squeeze on him, ravenous for it. “That’s it, fill me, Simon. Fill me up, and _don’t you dare stop. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred pounds,_ you absolute _nightmare_.”

Simon growls, utterly broken.

“Pitch, I am going to _destroy_ you next time we play. We are never going to stop playing. You will be able to unpack Operation with your eyes closed—you’ll know every Guess Who character by heart—we’ll play Frustration until the board cracks—you’ll sob my name as I shout Uno...fuck, Baz, we are going to summon demons with the magic we make.”

He’s working so hard for me. I’ve never loved him more. “Simon, Simon—!”

He’s wonderful.

He’s everything.

He’s _mine._

_Simon Snow is mine!_

It’s a sublime thought to reach orgasm to.

  
  


**SIMON**

I curl over him as he comes, nuzzling and kissing at his neck. I’m stupid happy about every single thing part of this. It’s pure bliss.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask.

Baz breathes, then swallows. “No....”

“Happy tears, then?” I peel my hand from his so I can brush away the wet on his cheek with my thumb.

“Overwhelmed,” Baz admits. I’ve never heard him so soft. He lets his eyes fall closed again—tears cling to his long lashes. “I’ve wanted this for so long...”

“Did it live up to your expectations?” I ask.

Baz smiles a bit at that. He sets his gaze on me, but this time there’s something more in his eyes. Not just tearful overload—there’s a warmth. And humour. And vulnerability.

“It was tolerable,” he says.

“Oi.”

Baz’s smile widens. He drapes his sluggish arms around my neck. “Adequate, even.” 

Now I’m smiling, too. “I guess I’ll need to keep practicing, then. Thank magic.”

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon eventually pulls back—I’m immediately cold from his absence.

First, he packs the cash and cards away like a ham-fisted trout, even though he’s being more gentle than one might assume Simon Snow to be capable of.

The sight of him handling the dishevelled board is quite alluring. I can’t believe I get to have this, get to _see_ this—my mind is still reeling. 

Simon crawls in next to me when he’s done. (I don’t dare ask where he’s deposited the ruined game—I’m too exhausted to care.) He pulls at the bedclothes, getting them out from underneath us so that we can burrow in.

“Budge up,” he huffs.

My eyelids feel heavy, but I manage to open them enough to shoot him a disgruntled look. 

“Are you sleeping in my bed?”

“Yeah. Better get used to it.”

I scoff, just to be difficult. I roll away from him onto my side, giving him room so that he knows I truly do want him here. (I hope he knows.)

Snow pulls the covers higher, tucking them around me with care. Then he settles his arm around my waist and shifts closer. “I’ll keep you warm.”

“Who knew,” I murmur, my heart in my throat, “that you’d be such a considerate boyfriend?”

I can feel Simon smile against the back of my neck. His breath ruffles my hair. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Pitch.”

“Good thing we have the summer,” I manage to say, on the verge of sleep. “There’s an entire _room_ filled with games in my house, Snow. You won’t know a moment of rest.”


End file.
